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I 





MARVELOUS 


IN OUR EYES 


BY 

EMMA E. HORNIBROOK 

OF “INTO THE LIGHT,” “BORNE BACK,” ETC. 


Ll V^l 1 ED • 


1 BROAD'wAy, NeV^oi^k 


York^N. Y , as Second Class Matter. 


PVRIGHT 1887 BY O. M, DUNHAM. 




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all cleaning purposes except the laundry. All 
grocers sell It. No. 38. 


MARVELOUS IN 


OUR EYES 

A STORY OF PROVIDENCE 


BY 

EMMA E. HORNIBROOK 

AUTHOR OF “ INTO THE LIGHT,” “ BORNE 
BACK,” ETC., ETC. 



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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

A STORY OF PROVIDENCE, 

CHAPTER II. 

Winifred’s home, .... 

CHAPTER III. 

THE SILVER BAR, .... 

CHAPTER IV. 

DANNY CONNOR, .... 

CHAPTER V. 

THE VICAR OF CLIFFCOOLE, 

CHAPTER VI. 

POETS AND POESY, .... 

CHAPTER VII. 

DOWN BY THE SEA, . 

CHAPTER VIII. 

DIVIDED LIVES, .... 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE GAP FILLED, .... 

CHAPTER X. 

OUT OF THE DEEP, , , . . 


• • 


PAGE. 

7 


. i6 

• 23 

• 30 

. 38 

. 46 

• 55 

• 65 


• • 


• • 


75 


84 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XI. 

PAGE. 

SWEET COUNSEL, 89 

CHAPTER XII. 

FADING AND DEATHLESS, 96 


FOREVER, 

CHAPTER XIII. 

102 

GOING DOWN, , 

CHAPTER XIV. 

. 108 

IN THE CAVE, . 

CHAPTER XV. 

. 117 

BACK TO EARTH, 

CHAPTER XVI. ^ 

• 125 

WAIT AND WORK, 

CHAPTER XVII. 

. 132 

TEMPTATION, . 

CHAPTER XVHI. 

• 139 

BY SEA, . 

CHAPTER XIX. 

. 144 

ON LAND, 

CHAPTER XX. 

• 151 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THROUGH THE WAITING, .... 

• 157 

CHAPTER XXH. 

CORRECTING A MISTAKE, . - , 

. 164 


“MARVELOUS IN OUR EYES.” 


A STORY OF PROVIDENCE. 


CHAPTER I. 

FAR AS THE ANTIPODES APART. 

The picture in the fading sunlight at the close of a 
day in early summer was a very pretty one — as 
pretty as youth, grace, and a total absence of all 
unpleasant surroundings could make it. Three young 
girls sat or reclined in easy attitudes in a luxuriously 
furnished drawing-room, which, in its quiet arrange- 
ments and want of what is usually deemed “effect,” 
was evidently “ a lady’s chamber ”. Of its occupants, 
one was decidedly beautiful ; each might have been 
so considered. We say “might”, for without regu- 
larity of feature or perfect coloring, there were cer- 
tain expressions and indications of character in each 
face which would have won upon many on a closer 
acquaintance than a mere passage in the street. Let 
us begin our limning aright. Half-buried in cushions, 
on a low couch, reclined Ethel Ruthin, the youngest 
and fairest of the group. She had scarcely num- 
bered eighteen years, but the pretty pink color came 
and went too fitfully through the clear skin, while 
her dark eyes had the dreamy light which is indica- 


8 


'■^Marvelous in Our Eyes^ 


tive of indolence or ill-health — perhaps of both. 
Her features were regular and in perfect repose — 
indeed, judging from the character of the face, smiles 
were rare, and a tender melancholy its habitual 
expression. ' • 

Seated at the piano, having just warbled forth a 
touching melody, but with her back now turned to 
the instrument, and any thing but a woe-begone 
expression in her bright blue eyes, was Louie Ruthin, 
Ethel’s senior by two years. The sisters were alike, 
yet strangely unlike. There was nothing suggestive 
of repose about the elder, but, rather, an habitual 
restlessness and mirthfulness, which was highly 
entertaining, and even contagious. The mouth 
betokened weakness, and even in the singularly sweet 
smile which played in its dimples was a certain inde- 
cision, from which an acute observer might have 
augured ill for the girl’s future. 

On a low Elizabethan chair, in a window recess, 
sat another girl, not a sister, but the constant friend 
and companion of the Ruthins — Winifred Lome. 
She might have seen as many years as Louie Ruthin ; 
she certainly had seen more in those years than Louie 
Ruthin had known. Her eyes were not blue, nor 
brown, nor black, but of a soft gray which partook 
of each. In truth, they seemed to vary in shade, 
as they softened with sympathy and affection, beamed 
with intelligence, or strengthened others with a 
strength of purpose which spoke as plainly in their 
steady light as the plainest expressions on the lips 
could have done. It is said, “ Every face is either a 
history or a prophecy”. On Winifred Lome’s a 


9 


Far as tJie Antipodes Apart. 

great deal might be written, and from it a great deal 
expected. At present its chief interest was, that 
the mind so easily shone through it, and every pure 
emotion seemed to leave a reflex there as an added 
charm. Her figure was in perfect repose, yet did 
not convey an impression of indolence. There was 
an ease and suppleness that told it might at any 
moment start into activity, and flit up and down the 
plain prosaic paths of life, the busiest of the busy 
throng. People who knew her said Winifred was a 
clever girl. Little of the secrets of heart or mind 
was shown to them, but she certainly seemed to 
apprehend^ in what true cleverness consists, which 
few women understand — even in making the most 
of circumstances. In spite of a pale face and slight 
figure, with their suggestions of an absence of phy- 
sical strength, her friends relied upon her, as the 
weak ever do upon the strong. Into “the trivial 
round, the common task ” of every-day life she 
brought, too, a buoyancy of spirit which is the result 
of good health and the natural outcome of a young 
and vigorous constitution. This, if it did not enno- 
ble, enlivened and increased her popularity. Her 
widowed mother and younger brothers and sisters 
relied upon her ; Ethel Ruthin relied on her, and so 
did Ethel Ruthin’s brother also, to a greater extent 
than he would have cared to admit. Could she rely 
upon him ? 

We must look somewhat lower, in more senses 
than one. In the window-recess, on the cushioned 
ground, lounged a young man of two-and-twenty. 
His well-shaped head and forehead betokened intel- 


10 ^'Marvelous hi Our Eyes^ 

ligence, his eyes, like his younger sister’s, were dark 
and dreamy, but about the mouth were some dis- 
agreeable lines. The same weakness as was apparent 
in his elder sister’s was there, mingled with an irony 
which too often caused the lip to curl. That mouth, 
with its contradictions, was a true index, and descrip- 
tive of the man. It might have been leniently 
read by the fair critics with whom he now was, and 
from whom much of his true character was hidden, 
but it would have needed no acute observer, if unprej- 
udiced, to lay bare the secret of a low nature striv- 
ing with no ordinary gifts and powers. Half-poet, 
half-painter, wholly nothing, Frank Ruthin was let- 
ting his life go by as a vain dream. Fitfully he wrought 
as the artist’s fancy was attracted, then ceased to 
study or to labor, and idly nursed an ideal ; or worse 
still, sought in self-indulgence such joys as could 
only yield bitter fruit. He might have been called 
the sole protector of his sister, for his father — im- 
mersed in politics and elated by sudden popularity 
— too often lost sight of family interests, and had 
neither time nor inclination to devote attention to 
his children. He went in and out among them with 
a mind preoccupied by public grievances, or schemes 
for some local benefit — not evil in themselves, but 
too engrossing. As they had early been left mother- 
less, Ethel’s health began to fail almost without 
notice. When it became too apparent, Mr. Ruthin, 
to give him his due, manifested some disquietude, 
and talked of sending her to Mentone. Then, after 
a long silence, during which so unimportant a matter 
had escaped his memory altogether, he decreed there 


Far as the Antipodes Apart. ii 

was no necessity for such a change, and the whole 
family — their friend, Miss Lome, included — should 
go off some dozen miles or so to a wild sea-coast, 
where he rented a comfortable lodge. To this they 
somewhat reluctantly consented, but afterward came 
to dwell upon the proposal with more satisfaction, 
and even a prospect of pleasure. 

As Louie Ruthin’s song was concluded, she turned 
round, as we have said, a merry expression in her 
eyes, a light laugh upon her lips. 

“ How can you laugh so, Louie ? ” exclaimed Ethel, 
in a dreamy tone, as she settled herself more com- 
fortably on her cushions ; “ you have nearly broken 
my heart.” 

“You have enough left to desire and enjoy com- 
fort,” returned her brother, in a satirical tone, as he 
turned on his elbow, with a look half proud, half 
contemptuous, to behold one whom he often styled 
his “ lovely lazy sister ”. 

“ I laughed, my dear,” replied Louie, coolly, not 
noticing her brother’s interruption, “ because I did 
not feel a bit of what I sang. I can not say I do not 
understand Italian, but hate sentiment.” 

“ Then how can you throw such expression into 
words which are to you without meaning? ” pursued 
Ethel. “ Your voide has a soft plaintive ring at all 
times, which seems as if it would never cease sound- 
ing in my heart. It contradicts your assertion, and 
declares that you have some feeling, though it is 
the only thing about you suggestive of melan- 
choly.” 

“ I hope, unlike the brook, it will not go on sound- 


12 


Marvelous in Oiir Eyes'* 


ing forever,” laughed Louie. “ I only sing as I have 
been taught, my dear.” 

“According to a new theory, it may go on sound- 
ing — ” began Frank ; but was interrupted by his vola- 
tile sister. 

“ Pshaw ! I hate theories ; I only mean its doleful 
effect on Ethel’s spirits.” 

“ How strange that some should have the power to 
touch other hearts while their own is unmoved,” 
said Winifred softly, as if speaking to herself. “ I 
always thought there is what is called a sympathetic 
chord, a sort of mysterious influence, and so earnest- 
ness struck a note in one which must vibrate in 
another. How is it that mere tones can stir our 
beings? I have felt what Ethel has expressed ; a 
sob of the wind, a minor chord, a moan of pain has 
overturned all my pleasures, and set my nerves quiv- 
ering for days.” 

“ In answer to your question, you must study the 
theory of sound,” returned Frank Ruthin, gazing 
up at her, as men do at what is beyond their com- 
prehension, yet quite within the reach of their admi- 
ration. “With regard to your experience, it is 
simply the result of too lively an imagination, and 
a too sympathetic nature.” 

“ What grave discourse ! ” broke in Louie again. 
“ One might think, to hear us talk of tones and 
theories, minor chords and mysterious influences 
(that is, of course, if our youthful charms were 
hidden from view), we were old maids, and you a 
staid bachelor, Frank. Now I shall give you some- 
thing to divert your attention, both grave and gay. 


13 


Far as the Antipodes Apart. 

apropos of the rocky fortresses of the natives to 
which we are going. Frank, was the sea-coast under 
the dominion of the Celt or Saxon ? I know the 
royal Canute placed his seat there.” 

And without waiting for an answer to a purposely 
silly question, she turned again to the piano, and 
played with exquisite taste a selection of Irish melo- 
dies, ending in spirited style with “The Young May 
Moon ” and “ Garryowen ”. 

“ Would you not like to have lived in the good 
old times?” she exclaimed, as she again faced her 
audience. 

“Why do you say the good old times?” inquired 
Frank. “Were they when men slaughtered their 
enemies to gain an appetite for dinner, and every 
comfort was wanting — so that Ethel might have 
reclined on rush-mats instead of downy' cushions ? ” 

“ No, but when gold bracelets were hung up and 
no one was wicked enough to touch them.” 

“ A short time, if ever! ” put in Frank. 

“And ladies might walk about in safety without 
the attendance of rude man,” continued Louie, as 
usual, regardless of his comments. 

“An advantage which Miss Ruthin, of all young 
ladies, would have prized ! ” was the satirical 
rejoinder. 

“ So we are to be banished to our wild Irish coast,” 
she began, again flitting off to another subject, and, 
as usual, avoiding an argument, “ leaving room in 
our vacant home for the nation to come in.” (This 
she intended as a slap at her father’s political inter- 
ests.) “We shall be buried alive in the little hamlet 


14 


“ Marvelous in Our Eyes,*' 


of Guyleen. Well, the roar of the water on the 
rocks at Inchnagorra is grand, and the distant view 
of the Cove of Cork grander still. Shan’t I charm 
the fishers with ‘ The Cruiskeen Lawn’, and old Erin’s 
buried greatness, of which I know nothing and care 
less, until they think they see it under the green 
water like a fairy isle ? If only the fresh breezes 
bring back some color to Ethel’s cheeks we shan’t 
complain. Eh, Ethel ? ” 

But Ethel was asleep, and Winifred was — not 
dreaming, for she had no clear vision ; but something 
strangely dark and undefined seemed to connect 
itself with Louie Ruthin’s words, or rather, steal out 
of them. She could not give it shape or seeming, 
still less analyze her feelings. It was one of those 
unaccountable presentiments which come to us all in 
life— not like specters of the past, but a warning or 
promise of the future. 

“ Far as the antipodes apart ! ” muttered Frank 
Ruthin, as he sought his own chamber that night. 
“Afar each from the other, yet strangely drawn 
together. One of the girls immeasurably below a 
fellow ; the other— well, scarcely above ! One with 
no thought but of frolic and foolery ; the other with 
intellect and energy of no common order. Ethel 
may be a mixture of both, but her nature seems 
frozen over. My father keeps aloof from us all with 
divided interests ; while I — ’’ 

Was the picture of an idle life and unused talents 
an inviting one? Apparently not. Frank Ruthin 
extinguished his lamp, but could not put out the 
power of reflection. 


15 


Far as the Antipodes Apart. 

That night Frank Ruthin had to face himself— to 
lie awake and review his life as it rose before him, 
whether he willed it or not. It is said 

“ Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, 

Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.” 

Frank Ruthin’s badness was rather of a negative 
nature. Measuring himself by other worldly young 
men of the same age and means, he certainly did not 
seem desperately wicked, but in the light of one well- 
spent life, how far short his would have come ! How 
different his aimless existence was from that of the 
young girl to whom alone he could look up ! Neither 
understood the other; neither fully sympathized 
with the other ; and no matter how closely united 
they might have been, Frank Ruthin s comment 
would have remained true, “ Far as the antipodes 
apart 


CHAPTER II. 


WINIFRED’S HOME. 

Mrs. Lorne, better known to the Ruthins as “Wini- 
fred’s mother”, rather than from any other import- 
ance of her own, sat at her early breakfast-table, sur- 
rounded by her numerous family. As the family 
was numerous, Mrs. Lorne was necessarily an early 
riser, and began by getting the first meal of the day 
speedily and satisfactorily out of the' way. Break- 
fast was not what is usually called a “ social meal ” 
in the Lorne family ; the head of it meant business, 
and every one who sat at that table was supposed to 
mean business too. It began in a decidedly straight- 
forward manner ; when Mrs. Lome’s cup was emptied 
for the second time a smart rap of her knuckles on 
the table announced the fact, and was the signal for 
the elder boy to place a large Bible and Book of 
Prayer on the table. With the aid of these she pro- 
ceeded in the most solemn and reverent manner to 
conduct family worship, frequently commenting on 
the chapter she had read by way of enforcing it. 
She did not understand the style of the day in gloss- 
ing things over, or dressing them up in soft terms. 
If there was a loiterer at the table, if one had 
descended late and eaten sparingly, no allowance 
was made; rules were rules, and no infringement of 
them conld be suffered, if order and decorum were to 


Winifred's Home. 


17 

be maintained. Mrs. Lome was conscientious — 
most conscientious ; no pressure of business, no undue 
haste, was permitted to interfere with or intrude into 
her religious services. Perhaps it was to guard 
against this danger that they were postponed until 
breakfa-st was over. She had been heard to say that 
no doubt fasting was good for holy people ; it had 
been taught both by precept and example ; but for 
her own part she found she could never pray without 
distraction when she was hungry. A well-regulated 
system and proper amount of food induced an easy 
state of mind ; a state favorable to devotion, in 
short. At all events she found the sight of bodily 
food of which she had not partaken interfered with, 
if not impaired, her relish for spiritual food of which 
she was about to partake. No one could have dis- 
covered that through this method and precision there 
was pressing on the poor lady’s mind a secret care, 
a burden which could never be shuffled off. 

The most amiable member of Mrs. Lome’s house- 
hold was judged by herself of least importance. It 
is true we are very much what we make ourselves, 
in more senses than one ; and this estimate of herself 
was indorsed by every other member of the family. 
Miss Freeman, Mrs. Lome’s sister, or “ Aunt Isa- 
bella”, as she was called by the children, which in 
time was corrupted into “ Billie ” through the lisp, 
ing of some juvenile member to whom the full name 
presented a difficulty, was not in the least self-assert- 
ing, so her claims to attention were continually set 
aside. Always setting the comfort of others above 
her own, there was not one with whom she came in 


1 8 “ Marvelous in Our Eyesl* 

contact, from the kitchen to the drawing-room, from 
the drawing-room to the nursery, who was not more 
or less under her influence for good. A calm- 
ing presence, and at the same time an ener- 
getic helper, each of them found in her a protector 
and friend. Winifred was her favorite, and much 
of the young girl’s strength of character and well- 
timed usefulness were due to her aunt’s judicious 
training and influence. It was strange that one who 
possessed so little firmness herself, apparently, should 
have encouraged this principle in another ; but Miss 
Freeman was quite conscious of her own short- 
comings, and earnestly sought to correct the effects 
of her weakness, and prevent the reproduction of 
her faults in the younger members of her sister’s 
family. She had prayed earnestly and waited 
patiently for some evidence of a change of heart in 
Winifred, and longed for the time when “ all her 
powers with all their might ” should be engaged in 
the highest service, while before her was but one 
object — the glory of the Eternal. 

“And so the Ruthins want you to go with them 
to Cliffcoole,” Mrs. Lome said, addressing her eldest 
daughter on this particular morning. “ I am sure, 
Winifred, you would like it.” 

Mrs. Lome had no suspicion of Frank Ruthin’s 
feelings for her daughter, or this invitation might not 
have been so readily entertained. Immersed in 
household cares, and forgetful that the girl had 
grown to womanhood, the thought of a lover for 
Winifred had not occurred to her. 

Winifred hesitated ; she did not feel she ought to 


Winifred' s Home. ig 

express the pleasure an acceptance of the proposal 
would give her. 

“ I don’t see how it could be managed, mamma,” 
she replied, seriously revolving in her mind her 
mother’s increased responsibility during her absence. 

“ I don’t see why it can not. Leave the manage- 
ment to me. I think you will admit I am a mana- 
ger,” replied Mrs. Lome, triumphantly. “ What do 
you say, Isabella?” 

“ I think a little change, and all that, you know, 
would do Winifred good,” said Miss Freeman, some- 
what dubiously, as if she would fain say more, while 
she regarded her niece affectionately. 

“Dear Billie,” murmured Winifred, meeting her 
aunt’s look with one as affectionate, “ you always 
say the right and kind thing for us all.” 

“ What seems kind is not always right,” answered 
Miss Freeman, quietly. 

“ The worst of Winifred’s going is, the clergyman 
at Cliffcoole is hardly up to my standard,” said Mrs. 
Lome, musingly. 

“ In social position or stature ? ” inquired Winifred, 
maliciously. 

“Winifred, how can you jest upon such a sub- 
ject ? ” replied her mother, severely. “ You know I 
mean as regards religious principle and church 
matters.” 

“ Mr. Archer is a good and truly pious man, I 
hear, and all that, you know,” said Miss Freeman, 
hastily. 

Womanlike, Miss Freeman took the weaker side, 
but in addition to this she had a habit of espousing 


20 


“ Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


the cause of the absent. Her own views were 
sound and clear, and she was independent, at least, 
in the belief that God would have her draw them for 
herself fresh from the fountain of truth. She 
brought all teaching to this test-stone. 

From some unexpressed feeling, Winifred avoided 
meeting her aunt’s eyes, in which she had just read 
a perturbed questioning. Miss Freeman, however, 
followed the girl to her room. 

“ You will go, Winnie?” she inquired. 

“ I suppose so, Billie,” was the brief reply. 

“ My child, I fear for you.” 

There was no response to this. 

“Frank Ruthin loves you; so do we all, for the 
matter of that; but you never can love him.” 

“ Why so, Billie? ” was the low inquiry. 

“Because he is unworthy,” returned Miss Free- 
man, quietly. 

“What if your assertion is contradicted? or your 
warning comes too late ? ” said Winifred, coloring 
jleeply. 

•“ Then it will be but a brief dream and a bitter 
awaking. But a dream, Winnie.” 

“You are a prophetess. Aunt Isabella.” 

“ Old women generally are, my dear. Experience, 
and all that, you know, casts a light upon the future, 
and they can see what lies before the young. It is 
well we can not tell too much. For myself, I am 
thankful that ‘ I know not what may befall me 
Winifred, if you know to whom to commit yourself, 
and all that concerns you, you would seek to please 
Him in the present, and leave the future in His safe 


Winifred's Home. 


21 


keeping. Until you can do this, I must feel anxious 
about you. One thing I am sure of, you will never 
be contented with mean things.” 

“Aunt Isabella! ” exclaimed the girl, starting up 
in sudden displeasure, “how can you connect mean- 
ness with Frank Ruthin ? ” 

“ Why should you think I alluded to him now, my 
dear? Winifred, beware! many a life has been 
clouded, and many young feet turned out of the 
paths of truth by the mistaken impulses of untried 
hearts. The young have a way of coloring things, 
and all that, you know, which is very pretty but very 
deceptive ; and feeling, notreason, guides them. It 
is a great matter — a great rest and blessing when we 
can, like little children, put our hands into the hand 
of the heavenly Father, and say, ‘ Lord, I cannot 
choose ; lead Thou me on 

There was a long pause. 

“My child,” continued Miss Freeman, very 
earnestly, “ will you breathe one short prayer to God, 
if only for my sake — ‘ Lord, that my eyes may be 
opened ’ ?” 

Winifred was silent. 

“ That involves a great deal,” she said, at last. 

“ A great deal,” said her aunt ; “ a knowledge of 
yourself as a poor lost sinner, of Jesus as your all- 
sufficient Saviour, of God as your Father, of heaven 
as your home, of the Lord’s people as your relatives, 
of the great privilege of living for Christ.” 

“You frighten me, Billie.” 

“ I need not, my darling. Not at once does God 
show us all this. Only enter His school, and He 


22 


Marvelous m Our Eyes." 


will impart as you are able to bear; for ‘who 
teacheth like him ’ ? ” 

Winifred unconsciously entered that school, and 
seated herself as a learner at His feet, when that 
night she offered the petition, “ Lord, that my eyes 
may be opened ! ” 

And the answer came, but not immediately ; and 
not in the way — no, not in the way the offerer 
desired. 




CHAPTER III. 


THE SILVER BAR. 

A MIST was creeping up out of the sea, stealing 
gradually, like an enemy, into a broad harbor on the 
south coast of Ireland, bounding the beholder’s 
view. Before it, across the mouth of the harbor, 
lay a long line of silver light strangely glimmering 
and smiling in view of the approaching darkness. 
In that line of silver light, a single sail was visible. 
Many ships lay at anchor within — two or three men- 
of-war, a huge Cunard and an Inman steamer (min- 
iature worlds in themselves), merchant vessels from 
all parts of the globe, of different size and lading, 
and several fishing-smacks. The prospects of “ dirty 
weather ” had driven them to their moorings, and 
across the bright bar of which we have spoken the 
last of the fishing fleet was seen approaching. Her 
return to shore was eagerly watched by a young 
girl, who was standing on a low promontory jutting 
out beneath a huge gray cliff, shading her eyes 
with her hand. Her lithe and active figure was 
well shown off by short skirts and a tight-fitting 
jacket. Her dark hair, loosened by a freshening 
breeze, blew across a cheek whose clear olive was 
tinged with the ruddy hue of health. Her dark 
eyes gleamed with hope and pride as she watched 


24 ''Marvelous in Our Eyes." 

the distant sail, and she sang to herself in a clear 
treble — 

“ There was a watcher down by the sea, 

There was a sailor-lad coming to me, 

And ever the wind whistled merrily. 

Bearing him on. 

" I care not for breezes in tree-tops high. 

For waving corn, or a summer sigh; 

But it fills the sails right merrily. 

Bearing him on.” 

Only a peasant girl was little Minnie Connor, yet 
with a gentle, loving nature, and perceptions as deep 
and pure as your own, dear reader. She had never 
learned to analyze her feelings in any way, or properly 
express them. When they must find vent, they- 
generally came out in broken snatches of songs 
which she had learned from the village girls, or spelled 
out for herself on old newspapers which fell into her 
hands. These, with wonderful facility, and the 
ready wit of her people, she adapted so, on various 
occasions, that they might almost have seemed 
improvised, and even amused her idle hours by teach- 
ing them to her brother, of whom we shall hear more 
by and by. Though but a fisher-maiden, she could 
draw pretty similes about silver bars, in her own 
young innocent fancy, as she sang. 

“ Heigho ! " sighed pretty Minnie, as, yielding to 
the general influence and the unrest of the sea, her 
strains became more sorrowful; “sure, an’ that’s a 
sad note, somehow, an’ I waitin’ for Will, an’ no- 
ways sorrowful. Thank God ! the trouble’s not 
cornin’ next nor nigh us ; the holy angel’s between 
us an’ harm.” 


The Silver Bar. 


25 


Minnie Connor, as we have said, was but a fisher- 
man’s daughter. Her father and elder brother slept 
beneath the wave beyond the silver bar ; her mother 
was a plain, unlettered woman, yet one who in some 
mysterious way received an awful sense of the good- 
ness and majesty of God, which afways possessed her 
soul. It may have come to her in the voice of nature 
through the sounding of the sea, in its ever-recurring 
calm and sunshine, as well as through its storm- 
cloud and roar; it may have been in the “still, 
small ” whispers of grace. However communicated, 
its end was accomplished in her. To that majesty 
she bowed unquestioningly when trial came upon 
her. How could she do otherwise than reply “ Thy 
will be done ! ” to Him whose lightnings rent the 
heavens, and thunders echoed like a mighty voice 
from cliff to cliff and crag to crag? “He doeth 
according to His will in the armies of heaven and 
among the inhabitants of the earth,’’ might have 
been the language of her heart; and who could 
resist, or dared gainsay that will? Mary Connor 
knew intuitively what so many great and learned 
are slow to receive, that to fret at it would be only 
like some poor prisoned bird beating its life out 
against the walls of its cage. Her highest wisdom 
was to bow submissively, and trust where she could 
not trace. So on the goodness also of the mighty 
God who ruled on high she depended when all 
things seemed against Her, and of course was com 
forted and upheld ; for who can doubt His faithful- 
ness ? Then in her lonely musings beside the solemn 
deep there was borne in upon her mind with the 


26 Marvelous in Our Eyes." 

clearness of a vision, a view of the stupendous sac- 
rifice of the Son of God upon the cross, and a sense 
of the love which led to it. On His finished work 
she depended for salvation ; in that love her soul 
was stayed for time and eternity. The simple ques- 
tioner after truth, like other questioners of every 
rank and state, and age and clime — 

“ An infant crj-ing in the night, 

An infant crying for the light, 

And with no language but a cry — ” 

without extraneous mortal aid, was making prog- 
ress toward the divine source — the Fountain-head 
whence alone need can be met. Falsity and super- 
stition were losing their hold on her, or rather her 
hold of them was loosened, and gradually there was 
“ falling from her eyes as it had been scales ”. What 
she could not reconcile with her belief in Christ she 
quietly, perhaps unconsciously, ignored. One son 
remained to her — a simple, dutiful lad— of whom 
we shall have occasion to speak at greater length 
hereafter — and Minnie — pretty, bright, busy, inno- 
cent Minnie — was the pride of her heart and joy 
of her life. With the help of the girl she sold the 
fish at the nearest market, which her son Danny 
caught. From her quiet, inoffensive manner, and 
her daughter’s good looks and modest ways, they 
were favorites in the neighborhood, and obtained 
employment of various kinds when bad weather 
prevented the lad’s putting- forth on the wild water. 
Indeed, Mrs. Connor (or “Granny” as she was 
called in the neighborhood), was never idle, and 
found the longest summer’s day too short for her. 


The Silver Bar. 


27 


There were few families among the gentry and well- 
to-do farmers around where finely-knitted stockings 
and other samples of her industry were not to be 
found. 

The line of light was narrowing, the silver bar 
becoming less and less. On the other side was the 
grave of Minnie Connor’s father, but on this side, for 
her, was light and love and joy. A strong young 
fisherman, like herself the prop of a widowed mother, 
who declared “ a good son would make a good hus- 
band ”, was nearing shore in the on-coming boat, 
and, as she watched it, Minnie’s heart grew light, 
and she sang to herself as joyously as a bird. But 
yestereven she had known “ for sure ” that Will 
Joyce’s true heart was hers, and they had plighted 
troth under the shadow of the huge gray cliffs which 
stretched away from the pretty village of Cliffcoole. 
It was wonderful to her to feel that the strong, brave 
man’s happiness depended on a look, a word, a 
smile of hers! that he was under her pretty little 
womanly reign, and, as it were, wholly at her mercy. 
Oh, how well she would guard the sacred trust ! 
Even as her little hands could clasp his arm, so her 
watchful tenderness should cling round him, and 
shield, too, when it depended. The distant silver bar 
was like the near stream of light that had fallen 
across her path, and in which she seemed to be 
treading. It represented to her a good man’s love, 
and his protecting care ; for this was the brightest 
thing memory could recall or imagination conceive. 
And so she was now waiting and watching, yet 
meanwhile, with all “ a child’s delight in little 


28 


^'■Marvelous in Onr Eyes'* 


things ”, while “ of the grief unborn ” she rested 
secure. Oh, had we but half the faith in God which 
we exercise toward others, how bright our paths in 
life would be ! 

“ Waiting for Will ! ” As Minnie lingered on the 
shore, now sending an anxious glance over the dark- 
ening water, now looking intently into holes and 
crevices of the rock, as if in quest of mussels, or 
inivaivn,^^ there came into her mind some lines she 
had read in an old magazine, and she proceeded, 
with the habit or gift to which we have already 
alluded, to adapt them for the occasion by interpos- 
ing the word “ Waiting”. 

Minnie did not set this to any decided air — rather 
a sort of wild recitative ; but the monotone of the 

waiting ”, so often recurring in the silence and 
solitude, was most effective. One heard it for whom 
life had grown suddenly dim, and who traveled 
hither and thither seeking to forget its burden in 
earth’s strange sights and sounds. It came to him 
on the water, as he, too, was returning to shore to 
go on his way and leave that place forever. “ What 
wait I for ? ” he asked, and like an answer to the 
chime rang some words in his memory which he had 
once learned but long time forgotten': 

“Truly my hope is even in Thee.” 

Foolish, playful, hypocritical Minnie! As the 
boat drew to shore, she strolled along the beach, 
prying into holes and corners, as though thinking 
only of their hidden stores, and not waiting or watch- 


* Or dilisk, an edible weed. 


The Silver Bar. 


29 


ing for lover or brother at all. Presently she felt 
Will’s strong hand on either shoulder, and then the 
pretty deception was at an end. There were no 
spectators, for the tall cliffs shut out the hard world 
beyond, and shut the simple lovers into their own 
bright world below, Danny having secured the 
boat, began in his own awkward fashion to ascend 
the rocks ; and what the rocks heard, we need not 
say. 


CHAPTER IV. 


DANNY CONNOR. 

As Danny Connor climbed the sides of the steep 
rock, he presented a singularly grotesque appear- 
ance. His figure was strangely misshapen, no two 
members of his body being in proportion one with 
the other ; but, perhaps, nothing was more remark- 
able than the extreme length of his arms and size 
of his bony hands. His reddish-brown hair hung in 
a tangled mass of irreclaimable confusion round his 
uncovered head, which wa§ unnaturally large ; his 
shoulders were broad, yet stooping, while his legs 
were short and thin. The face he turned ever and 
anon to the brow of the cliff did not altogether lack 
intelligence ; on the contrary, there was a strange 
mixture of shrewdness and innocent wonder in the 
light gray eyes, which was far removed from cunning 
or stupidity. The best thing in the face was a set 
of very white and regular teeth, which he showed 
with the faintest smile that flitted across his usually 
quiet face. Altogether, the most casual observer 
might have felt that the fisher-lad, though falsely 
reported half-witted, was entirely to be trusted. 
Even in his rapid ascent, as was his wont, he sang 
in a low tone wild snatches of song, now in a single 
line, now a refrain without any regular tune, and 
interspersed pretty freely with pointless mutterings. 


Danny Connor. 3 1 

It was this habit of singing and speaking to himself 
which had suggested a doubt of his sanity to the 
country people around ; but many a traveler who 
had watched his strange motions and listened to the 
verses his sister had taught him, and which they 
could scarcely have fancied impromptu, called him, 
in derision, “ the poet of Cliffcoole A poet he 
certainly was not ; he knew as little of the real 
inspiration of genius as of the meaning of the term. 
He was never wrought up to making verse, and his 
mood seldom changed. That he could attract any 
one by his wild strains never occurred to him, and, 
indeed, he would not have been ambitious of such 
honor. Still, he had the power of stringing together 
disjointed thoughts in irregular verse, oftener regard- 
less of rhyme, like beads of different shape and size 
upon one string, or rays of light divided in their 
passage through a dark and narrow channel. His 
sister had a great advantage over him in having a 
quick ear, while all his idea of tune was a doleful 
monotonous croon. 

“ Which is the best, the sunshine or the dark, the 
bright or the storm ? ” muttered the lad, according 
to his custom, thinking aloud. “ ’Tis a wise per- 
son can tell. Mother says nothing can hurt us 
unless God lets it, not even the big thunder. I 
have seen the hot sun scorch up an’ ate the little bits 
of pinks an’ flowers an’ moss that grows so purtily 
in the holes of the rocks, an’ was never loosened by 
the storm from their holdings. It is a grand thing 
to have one’s trust in God for fair weather and foul, 
as mother has. He sees me, I know, through the 


32 


Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


bright holes in the sky. I catch His eye looking 
down, but I never see more of Him than that, 
though I looks up pretty often. Danny’s doing no 
harm ; Danny’s catching fish for his mother, an’ 
thanks God for his good arms.” 

And, with the latter strange ascription of praise, the 
lad threw out the long members in which he gloried, 
like enormous feelers, until his large hands grasped 
the top of the cliff, and buried themselves in some 
strong roots growing there, by means of which he 
drew himself up. As the bony hands waved them- 
selves in the air above the summit, a faint cry issued 
from it; and when Danny’s shoulders appeared, a 
group of ladies and a gentleman were visible to the 
climber, shrinking back from his approach, yet, per- 
haps, too curious to beat a precipitate retreat. 
Danny, with the quick instinct which is given to per- 
sons of weak intellect, understood his position 
among them, and their feelings at a glance. One did 
not fear him at all. He met her gaze for a moment 
with intense satisfaction. Another was at once 
amused and frightened ; a third' only frightened. To 
her he addressed himself. 

“Don’t be afeared, lady; it’s only me.” 

“Only you?” said the gentleman. “I should 
not say ‘only’, my man. I never saw anything 
like you before.” Then in an aside, “ Such a 
specimen of humanity is uncommon enough to 
attract notice, and stand alone in its ugliness.” 

A mischievous gleam shot from Danny’s eyes. 
Though he did not hear Mr. Ruthin’s last words, and, 
perhaps, would not have received their full meaning 


Danny Connor. 


33 


if he had, he had the wit to perceive that he was only 
a butt for the shafts of the gentleman’s ridicule. 
For a moment or two his anger was excited, and he 
felt inclined to resent this ; but his wrath quickly 
died away, and he said, quietly, yet with a mixture 
of pride, which was extremely ridiculous — 

“ I suppose, indeed, you never seen the likes of 
me — leastways, the likes of these arms,” extending 
them to their full length. “Well, I’m Danny Con- 
nor, that lives in the cabin over yon, above Guyleen; 
and I — a — a — follow the art of fishing.” 

“ A noble art ! ” laughed the gentleman, who was 
no other than our acquaintance Frank Ruthin. 

“ Yes,” returned the lad, softening his voice almost 
to a whisper, “ I know it is. Mother told me of Him 
as walked right a-top of the waves on a wild night. 
Well, I’ve looked out for Him many, many times, 
but never He corned my way ; but then I’m a poor 
simple boy, an' maybe He’d be only seen by one 
who is to be made a great saint entirely. Mother 
says, too, that when it was blowing half a gale of 
wind, and the big water washing over the boat. He 
laid down and went to sleep as quiet as a baby in 
its cradle. That’s Inchnagorra opposite^ miss, and 
there’s the rock where the big steamer went to 
pieces,” he continued, again addressing Ethel, to 
whose beauty his eyes returned with a lingering, 
wondering gaze, “ On that low reef the passengers 
an’ crew got ashore, and we stood above ’em there ; 
but the storm came up from the sea, driving us back 
w’hen we tried to get on, and somebody held me, an’ 
said I could do nothin’. When the light come, t^yc» 


34 


"^Marvelous in Our Eyes. 


or three of us got down with ropes, an’ them as was 
alive was hauled up, but half that got ashore lay 
dead ablow. A little lad was held inside his father’s 
coat, but that couldn’t keep the life in him, an’ he 
was quite cold an’ stiff, an’ — ” here Danny’s 
voice sank to a whisper — “ that father was madder 
nor me.” 

Ethel Ruthin’s eyes were fixed on the speaker 
with eager interest, and a tear glittered on their long 
lashes. Danny had all a man’s objection to a woman’s 
tears, so he shrank away, muttering ; but from that 
hour that lovely face impressed itself upon his 
memory like a dream. 

“Stay,” exclaimed Frank Ruthin, as he perceived 
the fisher-lad departing, “ you must not get off so 
easily, my man ; I want to perpetuate la figure gro- 
tesque — in other words, to take your likeness.” 

Now Danny did not fully comprehend this, but he 
understood what the gentleman meant by drawing 
forth a long thin book and pencil. He had seen 
such in requisition with many a tourist, and watched 
them transfer in some wonderful way the scenes 
around him to paper, even to the giant Coolum itself, 
the darkest and most rugged of all the cliff-line, 
towering in gloomy and terrible majesty above the 
rest, and frowning alike on the land it guarded, and 
the sea as a bold invader. Often an attempt had 
been made openly or furtively to transfer “ the poet 
of Cliffcoole” also to paper, but Danny, always sus- 
picious of this, had many devices for evading it. He 
was ordinarily a brave lad ; he feared not to put 
forth on the dark waters when a storm was raging 


Dan?iy Connor, 


35 


and the lightning’s flashes revealed a drifting bark. 
He would hang suspended in mid-air over a terrible 
abyss when the waters seethed and leaped in their 
mad wrath, as he dared the sea-birds’ vengeance in 
his search for eggs ; but he had an overpowering 
dread of having himself “ taken ”, or “drawn out on 
paper ”, as he expressed it. He looked upon it as a 
sure harbinger of approaching death ; and had he 
known that, as he fled before the artist’s attack, or 
partly from memory, his figure was sketched, he 
would have felt his doom was sealed. Danny’s 
simple mind could not understand why people who 
were still in the flesh wanted one another’s “ pictures 
drawn out ” ; and even if the sea divided them, he 
thought it was a poor mind that could not recall 
the absent face, with a smile upon it which the dim 
glass or paper never wore. He could remember the 
father who slept beneath the rolling tide, but no 
daguerreotype could have represented that father to 
him. It was therefore almost with a shudder he 
averted his face from Frank Ruthin’s smiling gaze, 
while an angry flush rose to his forehead. In spite 
of the manifest displeasure, however, the young gen- 
tleman had made a few rapid strokes of his pencil, 
when Miss Lome stepped forward and laid her 
hand hastily upon the paper. 

“The lad must not be annoyed,” she said, quietly. 

There was something in the tone which caused a 
flush to rise to the gentleman's face such as it 
seldom wore. He was not accustomed to be dic- 
tated to, and never brooked interference. Never- 
theless, he bit his lip when it began to curl, and by 


36 


Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


a strong effort controlled his temper. His vexation 
was swallowed with a sort of gulp. Danny looked 
gratefully at his unexpected champion, and then beat 
a hasty retreat. He, at least, appreciated the laying 
of that small, firm hand upon the (to him) obnoxious 
page. “ If she had only my arms she could do any 
thin’,” he muttered to himself as he went his way, 
quite unconscious that his imaginary advantage 
would not have been desired by the young lady. 

“ Mother,” he said, as he entered his cabin a little 
later, “ there’s only a basketful of fish ablow. 
An’, mother, who are the gentlefolk I seed as I come 
along ? ” 

“ They be lately come to Coolum Lodge up yon,” 
returned Mrs. Connor. “ Minnie must take them up 
some fish. One looks as if she was not long for this 
world, poor, dear young lady, or else my old eyes 
don’t serve me right. I can’t say how it is that the 
fairest an’ purtiest things we see the soonest pass out 
of sight. Ah, well ! God is merciful, an’ though our 
goodness won’t get us into heaven, our badness 
needn’t keep us out of it that I can see, if we only 
repent sincere, an’ trust in the merits of His Son.” 

And even as she spoke, the poor fisher-woman 
breathed a prayer for the fading flower of Cliffcoole. 

Did this title occur to poor Danny, or was it mere 
chance that there rose to his clouded mind the versQ 
of a song long time forgotten ? — 

“ Beneath the cliffs a flower grew; 

None so daring, none so daring 
As to pluck that flower blue — 
l^one so daring. 


Danny Connor. 


37 


But the wild wind whistled nigh, 

But the wild spray dashed on high — 

Came to see the flower die ; 

Were they daring ? 

Danny descended a short but rugged hill, where 
clustered many fishing-cabins, in their irregular form 
and absence of design like clumps of weeds, of various 
shades, from tawny to brown, cast on the rocks below. 
As the lad leisurely proceeded, he sang again a line 
or bar of the late sad ditty as it occurred to him, 
and the giant rocks at Inchnagorra, as they caught 
a louder note now and then, which was borne across 
the water, echoed “wild ” and “ die”. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE VICAR OF CLIFFCOOLE. 

The vicar of Cliffcoole was a young man ; too young, 
some had ventured to complain when he was 
appointed. The Ruthins had occupied their seaside 
lodge a few summers previously, and between this 
time and their present visit the late incumbent died, 
and the charge was given to the Rev, Horace 
Archer, whose father had been one of the bishop’s 
friends. Whatever feelings influenced the latter in 
his choice of a successor to the old minister who had 
slumbered spiritually, as well as literally, beside the 
drowsy waves, and, unlike their vigorous brine, had 
decidedly “lost his savor it was a wise one. Mr. 
Archer was an astute scholar and a gentleman. 
True, learning might be of little avail in his new 
post, but he had other qualifications which emi- 
nently fitted him for it, in a grave, earnest manner, 
and a simple eloquence which was very forcible. 
Few brought under its influence could resist, none 
could gainsay it, backed as it was by that most pow- 
erful of all arguments, a holy life. As a sincere and 
unworldly Christian who had work around him, 
resources within himself, and coming power above, 
he was quite contented with his lot. He did not 
choose, still less seek, to carve out his own destiny ; he 
simply accepted it, He did not try to force a path 


The Vicar of Cliffcoole. 39 

for himself ; as soon would he have thought of storm- 
ing a city single-handed ; but when a path was open 
he trod it carefully and zealously. Not in the least 
undervaluing his own gifts, and seeking, rather, “ to 
magnify his office,.” he did not allow himself to be 
carried away by his own desires, but wholly sub- 
mitted himself to the divine will, saying, 

“ Choose Thou for me ! ” 

Laying aside learning, this singular man came 
down in his preaching to the meanest capacity, set- 
ting forth the Gospel in its beautiful simplicity. 
Standing on a sure foundation, he held out a strong 
hand in yearning pity to those he sought to rescue. 
Some were awakened to anxiety by seeing how per- 
suaded he was of their danger, while others felt 
ashamed of their sins, and not insensible to “ the 
beauty of holiness ”, as shown in his practice. He 
was a ready adviser in seasons of difficulty, mourned 
with the mourner, and was ever to be found in the 
chamber of suffering. Little children clung to 
him, and the happy loved his smile. Even the most 
turbulent character in the neighborhood passed him 
with a respectful salute, and he was considered 
under the special protection of the fish-wives — an 
honor to which few attained, and which, truth to 
say, he scarcely appreciated. 

Such was Horace Archer, dealing so wisely and 
kindly, that among the inhabitants of Cliffcoole and 
its somewhat thickly-peopled neighborhood, on to 
the adjoining important sea-port town, he was 
decidedly a favorite and a success. He did not dis- 
cern much good result from his labor, it is true, greatly 


40 


“ Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


as he desired it ; but the good seed was sown in many 
a heart, and the dew of God’s blessing was beginning 
manifestly to descend, in answer to many prayers. 

“ How do you like the new parson ? ” asked 
Frank Ruthin of Winifred and his sisters, as they 
walked home from church along a winding seaside 
path, the first Sunday of their stay at Cliffcoole. 

“Not at all,” returned Louie; “ there was not a 
single new idea in his sermon. It’s the same thing 
they all say, over and over again.” 

“ I don’t think I ever heard a sermon like it 
before,” remarked Ethel, dreamily. 

“ And I, too, thought it seemed wonderfully fresh 
and new,’* added Winifred, gazing thoughtfully 
before her. “ I suppose it is all in the Bible, and I 
have heard the old story of which you complain, 
Louie, many times ; but really, whether through my 
former ignorance or the clergyman’s present gift, it 
commended itself to me as it has never done 
before.” 

“ I thought you seemed very attentive,” observed 
Louie maliciously. “I was wondering whether it 
was to the man or the matter. He is too young and 
gentle (not that he is my style, you know), to be 
stared out of countenance.” 

“ I don’t know what you call gentle,” replied 
Frank Ruthin, testily. “ He has a straight nose 
and hard, grave face.” 

“Not hard, Frank,” interrupted Ethel. “There 
was a strange light in it, which made me think he 
enjoyed what he said, if no one else did.” 

“ Perhaps he enjoyed it all the more for the mani- 


The Vicar of Clijfcoole. 41 

fest admiration of his audience,” sneered Master 
Frank. “Probably he took yours and Miss Lome’s 
attention as a tribute which was his due.” 

“ Well, men are jealous ! ” laughed Louie. “ Did 
you ever meet a man who was willing to have 
another admired or praised? It detracts from dear 
self.” 

“ I thought this was an interesting phase of char- 
acter for which ladies were specially noticeable,” 
retorted the young gentleman. 

“Don’t mind sneering, Frank; reserve your 
satire,” pursued his elder sister, who was not to be 
set down or silenced. “ Remember this is Sunday. 
Let us turn the subject. Don’t you think Miss 
Franklyn’s bonnet showed a great deal of 
research ? ” 

No one seemed interested in this equally unprofit- 
able inquiry, so silence ensued. Frank Ruthin bit 
his offending lip — a habit he had when seeking to 
control ill-humor — and glanced now and again at 
Miss Lome’s thoughtful face as she walked quietly 
beside him. 

Mr. Archer had chosen a very short text that day 
— only two words — “This Man,” as found in two 
passages — “This Man receiveth sinners” (Luke 
XV., 2) ; “ Through this Man is preached unto you the 
forgiveness of sins ” (Acts xiii., 38). 

He tried to show his hearers that they were sin- 
ners, and for this end sought to bring them face *to 
face with the holy God, and with the manifestation 
of Himself in the pure and blessed Jesus, the One 
who came to rescue the lost, to restore the erring, 


42 


'•^Marvelous in Our Eyes'* 


to raise the fallen. Majesty, abating nothing of its 
greatness, had come down to misery’s low estate. 
Had it been in vain for any of them ? 

Through the fullness of the atonement he 
preached unto them a resurrection from wrong to 
right, froni death to life, from a tried existence to an 
eternity of bliss. 

In Winifred’s heart awoke anew a sense of need, 
of which she had ever been more or less conscious, 
and which now stirred almost to pain. For the first 
time the gracious One of whom she heard seemed 
“ a living, bright reality ”. Still, the power of a mere 
earthly affection held her from His side, and won 
her for itself alone. 

Of course Mr. Archer noticed the .strangers in his 
church, and was pleased, though not flattered, by 
the manifest attention of some of them. He did 
not take that attention as a tribute due to himself, 
but due to his theme ; and, as he marked Winifred’s 
earnest gaze, and Ethel’s manifest delicacy and 
dreamy languor, he felt drawn out in greater earn- 
estness and more faithful simplicity. 

The service concluded with a hymn. The church 
was on the slope of a hill, a narrow path leading to 
the main road, which overlooked the water. As Mr. 
Archer descended this, he came suddenly upon 
Danny Connor, standing motionless, gazing out to 
sea. His hands were clasped, and his face wore a 
rafft expression, as if some beatific vision filled his 
mind, or he heard entrancing sounds. Mr. Archer, 
who had encountered the lad many times before, 
and knew something of his tastes and habits, at 


The Vicar of Cliffcoole. 43 

once divined the cause of his apparent enjoy- 
ment. 

Good-morning, Danny,” he said. “ Have you 
been listening to our singing ? ” 

“ Good-morrow kindly, yer honor, an’ sure them 
sounds was jest beautiful.” 

“You love music, my lad?” inquired the gentle- 
man, curious to hear the poor fellow’s idea of it. 

“Ay!” returned the lad, as if not understanding 
what was meant. “ I love the noise of the sea when 
it’s roarin’ mad, an’ dashes upon the cliffs, an’ the wind 
whistles an’ screeches an’ howls like a thing in pain. 
An’ I like to hear the cry the sea-birds make when 
the storm’s cornin’ ; oh, yes, an’ the purty see-see 
the little shells make when you holds them to yer 
ear. But the nicest of all is them notes you was 
making awhile agone; it seemed as if all the purty 
sounds was fittin’ in together. I can sing, too, 
finely,” and without waiting for an invitation 
Danny commenced his usual croon, in which, no 
matter how great his taste for music and apprecia- 
tion of harmony, there was at least no melody — 

“ Out on the sea when the waters roll 
An’ the wild winds come and go, 

When the sky was dark, down went the bark 
Full forty fathoms low,” 

“That is a sad song, Danny,” said Mr. Archer, 
cheerfully, “but it reminds me of something. Do 
you know we were all going down— down to a deeper 
and blacker place than the bottom of the sea — but 
the good Lord came out of heaven, and paid a price 
for our souls by pouring out His heart’s blood on 


44 “ Marvelous in Our Eyes." 

the cross, so that He might buy us, and take us td 
live with Him in His happy home above?” 

“But however are we to get up there?” asked 
Danny ; “ ’tis that puzzles me entirely. Father 
Byran says, ‘ Be a good boy, Danny, an' mind yer 
duty reg’lar, an’ don’t forget yer dues, and there’s 
no fear of you, through the mercy of God.’ Mother 
says it’s all the mercy of God, widout any dues.” 

“Yes, my lad, there were dues, but not to be paid by 
you. God must have His rights and satisfaction for 
sin ; but if we trust in what the blessed Lord Jesus 
endured for us, God will forgive us our offenses, take 
us into His favor now, and receive us into heaven 
when we die.” 

And knowing the power of music over the simple 
lad, Mr. Archer sang in a low, deep voice some 
verses of a well-known hymn. 

The air and rhythm caught Danny’s fancy. 

“ Learn me that,” he cried impatiently. 

Mr. Archer repeated the lines very slowly and dis- 
tinctly. Then he said, 

“ Danny, the Lord Jesus bids us come to Him. 
He is not on earth now, but up in heaven, and we 
can not see Him with our eyes, but may speak to 
Him in our hearts and with our lips, and He hears 
and understands us. When we so speak we come 
to Him ; when we trust to Him altogether without 
any thing else, He saves us. Can you read, -my 
lad ? ” 

“ Och ! then, an’ I can not, yer riverence, though 
mother is a fine scholard, an’ Minnie is lamin’. All 
the edication was left out of me, more’s the pity, an’ 


The Vicar of Cliffcoole. 45 

but that the good Lord gev me such fine arms I 
should be no good at all, at all.” 

“Well, take this book,” returned the clergyman, 
handing his companion a New Testament which he 
happened to have about him, “and may it make 
you and yours ‘ wise unto salvation ’ ! ” 

Danny accepted the gift with thanks. 

“ The entrance of Thy words giveth light and 
understanding to the simple.” 

The poor lad little knew what a bright beam of 
light was to enter his humble home through the 
reading of this blessed book. He went off singing 
with a satisfied air, in the consciousness of his new 
possession. 

Of course Mr. Archer called on the Ruthins, and 
by a pleasant, genial manner set himself on an easy 
footing with them at once. He did not believe in 
forcing religion upon people in a disagreeable way, 
as if it was a wholesome potion that they must 
swallow, nor in a gloom which little commended it. 
He did not wish their pastor for the time to become 
a formidable personage to them, no more than to 
poor Danny Connor, yet would not lower the dig- 
nity of his ministry. He was successful in this effort 
also, and so his influence for good was felt in the 
home of the rich as well as in the cabin on the rock. 


CHAPTER VI. 


POETS AND POESY. 

With a mighty roll and ceaseless dash, as if con- 
scious of and rejoicing in their might, the waters of 
the broad Atlantic swept on to the very base of the 
tall cliffs that guarded the shore at Cliffcoole, but a 
few miles distant from a large seaport town, break- 
ing on the rocky barriers in fierce wrath, and send- 
ing showers of spray on high, as in mingled anger 
and derision. Triumph it might have been ; for as 
surely as those barriers stood up to resist, so surely 
did the mighty tide encroach and extend its domin- 
ion. In a narrow cove, guarded on all sides but the 
one open to the sea by dark gray cliffs, reached only 
by a circuitous and narrow path, was a clear floor- 
way of bright yellow sand. On this was a tolerably 
comfortable seat, hollowed by the action of the tide 
out of a huge bowlder; and in it, amid plaids and 
wraps, sat Ethel Ruthin, while her sister and friend 
reclined on the ground beside her. 

And now, fair mistress, thou art enthroned, and 
we, thy attendant maidens, await thy commands!” 
exclaimed Louie. “ Shall we gather marine treas- 
ures for the royal aquarium, or sit at thy majesty’s 
feet, and read thee to sleep?” 

“If you act courtiers, I shall, like the mighty 
Dane, order you to move my immovable seat to 


Poets and Poesy. _ 47 

where the waves shall roll in to wash away my fancied 
greatness,” returned Ethel. 

“ I think not,” laughed Louie ; “ that would involve 
your moving also ; a thing I know you are averse to 
when you have been made comfey.” 

Ethel’s indolence, whether natural or the result of 
ill health, was too well known to be disputed. 

“ I do not feel inclined to play at rank and style 
here,” said Winifred ; “ I seem very small indeed. 
And yet nowhere else does my mind travel forth so 
far, or my heart swell with such a sense of its tre- 
mendous capacity.” 

“You are always moralizing, Winifred,” answered 
Ethel, languidly ; “ I never moralize, but feel as if I 
could dream life away by this beautiful calm tide. 
The little girl who lives in the cabin on the cliffs has 
not altogether a bad time of it ; every influence is 
pure and fresh, and must breathe peace. Her taste 
has not been impaired ; ours has been spoiled by the 
life of a city.” 

Winifred, in reply, repeated in clear tones the 
lines — 

“ ‘ I see the deep’s untrampled floor. 

With green and purple sea-weeds strewn ; 

I see the waves upon the shore, 

Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown ; 

I sit upon the sands alone, 

'I'he lightning of the noontide ocean 
Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion. 

“ ‘ Yet now, despair itself is mild. 

Even as the winds and waters are ; 

I could lie down like a tired child. 

And weep away the life of care 


48 


Mnrvelous in Our Eyes." 


Which I have borne, and yet must bear, 

Till death-like sleep might steal on me. 

And I might feel in the warm air 

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony. ’ ” 

“The man who sang thus declared he had not — 

“ ‘ Hope nor health, 

Nor peace within nor calm around,’ ” 

said a full, deep voice, as Mr. Archersuddenly rounded 
a corner and stood beside them. 

“ There are others like him,” muttered Ethel, as 
if involuntarily. 

He did not look as if he heard her ; on the con- 
trary, he turned his head away, and no one would 
have guessed that his heart rose in thankfulness at 
the admission. He only said, in a pleasant voice ; 

“You have invaded my dominions, young ladies. 
I must have been here before you, dreaming my own 
dreams in a terrible retreat called ‘ The Bloody 
Cavern 

“Oh! Mr. Archer, what a beautiful name!” 
exclaimed Louie. 

“Do you think so?” he replied, with an amused 
expression. “ I should have said it was the reverse.” 

“ Indeed, it is beautifully suggestive,” persisted 
Louie ; “ a very romance in itself — love, mystery, and 
superstition.” 

“You love romances. Miss Ruthin?” 

“ I do.” 

“ And think highwaymen, smugglers, etc., gallant 
gentlemen ? ” 

“ I do.” 


Poets and Poesy. 


49 


“ I am sorry for you,” he said, candidly. 

“ And I don’t want your pity,” was the smart 
retort. 

“ Nevertheless, being a foolish fellow, I give it,” 
he returned, good-humoredly, “ as I should give it 
to one I saw seeking to still the cravings of hunger 
with poison, when wholesome food was within his 
reach. What is more,” he added, with a willful look 
which sat very well on his usually grave face, but 
called a momentary flush to Miss Ruthin’s, “ I am 
afraid I should try to take the poison from him.” 

There was a pause, and then Mr. Archer went on 
in a different tone. 

“ Whether this cave was the resort of smugglers, 
or simply received its name from the red hue of the 
rocks which form it, I can not tell ; probably both. 

I know it used to communicate with the pretty cot- 
tage which stands alone a little way back in the hollow 
from the brow of the cliff, and have heard a strange 
story about it.” 

“ A story ! pray tell it to us,” was Louie’s delighted 
ejaculation. 

And with a courteous, “ At your command. Miss 
Ruthin,” which removed all her lingering displeasure, 
Mr. Archer began : 

“For a long time that cottage was untenanted ; 
the last tenants had heard such strange sounds there 
in the dead of night that they were glad to leave 
the place and seek some quieter abode. Of course, 
there was but one solution of the mystery— the 
place was haunted ! The evil report went abroad, 
^nd no one would take it. At last it was let to the 


50 


‘‘ Marvelous in Our Eyes” 


wife of an officer in the constabulary stationed at 
the cove. She came there with her children and 
servants, her husband remaining at his quarters. 
The very night of their arrival the strange sounds 
began. From the walls at one side of a passage 
leading to the sitting-room she heard dreadful moans, 
the clanking of chains, and even wild laughter, which 
sometimes seemed to ascend from beneath. She 
was not naturally nervous ; so tried to discover if it 
was a trick — in vain; and almost concluded some 
wretched maniac must be concealed on the premises. 
At last she wrote to her husband, begging him to 
come to her secretly and with dispatch, which he 
did. On hearing her story he formed his plans. 
Stationing a few men privately on the premises, he 
sat alone with his wife late at night. A terrible noise 
was heard, then a rattling of iron ; she grasped his 
arm in terror. 

“ ‘ Take the light and go before me through the 
passage,’ ” he whispered. 

“ She obeyed, trembling in every limb. He kept 
close behind her. As she reached a certain spot, 
through an aperture not noticeable before, a red 
hand was thrust right into her face. In an instant 
the officer seized it. It was flesh and blood, and 
t\yisted itself vigorously and viciously in a vain effort 
to get free. At a signal, the policemen rushed in, 
the aperture was widened, and the leader of a band 
of smugglers captured, with much booty. The rest 
of the band escaped through ‘the bloody cavern ’ to 
the sea.” 

“ What a grand story ! ” exclaimed Miss Ruthin ; 


51 


Poets and Poesy. 

“ but I don’t think it was right of the officer to make 
his wife go before him. I thought when you came 
to that part he was a coward.” 

“You should not form hasty conclusions,” said 
Mr. Archer, smiling. 

“ I shall never form any others,” returned Louie, 
with her usual light laugh. 

Mr. Archer turned to Ethel. 

“ The sea is always suggestive of unrest. How is 
it that it has a calming influence upon our minds ? ” 

“ I suppose it is only the monotony of its sound,” 
she replied. 

“ Or perhaps, the greater unrest outside makes 
that within seem less,” added Winifred. “The mind 
is drawn off from the contemplation of itself.” 

He looked quickly at her. 

“ I think you are right ; there never can be peace 
to a mind turned in upon itself. It induces that 
morbidity of which I complain in novels,, until the 
imagination becomes diseased. When the mind 
travels over the illimitable ocean and is lost in the 
contemplation of its vastness, or visits distant lands, 
it inhales, as it were, new life and vigor, and fresh 
powers of thought, which are to the intellect whr.t 
the sea-breezes are to the wasting body.” 

There was a silence after this. He had spoken 
well, but his last words struck a chord which vibrated 
somewhat painfully. He perceived it. 

“ We spoke just now of one who had not ‘hope 
nor peace ’, ” he said, bending agafn toward Ethel. 
“ Do you know why this was so with this gifted 
man } ” 


52 


^'Marvelous in Onr Eyes.” 


“ No,” she replied, looking away from him, for 
she had an intuitive perception to what he was lead- 
ing her. 

“ Because he could not look away from himself 
and his evil surroundings to One who is, in Himself, 
His people’s peace. He who trusts in Christ has a 
hope which nothing can destroy, ‘ as an anchor of 
the soul both sure and steadfast 

There was a silence after this ; then Mr. Archer, 
in full, quiet tones, repeated slowly, 

“ ‘ Peace I leave with you ; my peace I give unto 
you. Not as the world giveth give I unto you.’ Oh, 
what a heritage ! How sad to see so many miss it ; 
how painful to trace the word ‘ unsatisfied ’ written 
across the greatest efforts of genius ! Shelley drank 
to the dregs the cup of earthly joy, yet, unhappy in 
himself, his writings do not breathe that high, pure 
tone which should mark true poesy.” 

“You are a severe critic, Mr. Archer,” said Wini- 
fred. “ Do you write ? ” 

“Not poetry; my standard is too high.” 

“ And you assail the highest ? ” 

“ I was not aware of it. Do you read poetry. 
Miss Lome ? ” 

“Selections. We have some volumes, English 
and American.” 

“ May I inquire — what effect have such pieces as 
you have quoted upon you? Do they give you 
strength for ‘ the common task ’ in every-day life ? ” 
“ No; but they rest me after it.” 

“ I may infer they induce a tender melancholy, or 
a lofty enthusiasm. You dream ? " 


Poets and Poesy. 


53 


“ Yes." 

“ I am afraid you are a poet," he rejoined, laugh- 
ing. 

“Afraid?" 

“Yes; I do not think the gift of poesy a happy 
heritage for a woman." 

“ And I am afraid I have as little claim to it as 
the poor half-witted lad who climbs those rocks has 
to the title of ‘ Poet of Cliffcoole,’ ” Winifred replied. 

“There is something strangely reliable about that 
lad,” said Mr. Archer, musingly. “ In spite of his 
singular deformity, one instinctively trusts and likes 
him.” 

“ Mr. Archer, why do you choose to live here?" 
asked Louie Ruthin, suddenly. 

“ I did not choose it. Miss Ruthin." 

“Then, why come here at all? You were not 
forced to do so, surely?" 

“ Not at all ; I was led." 

Miss Ruthin looked puzzled. 

“Old John Newton used to say that ‘whenever he 
tried to carve for himself, he always cut his fingers ’. 
Can you not understand my professing to be led by 
a higher will and power than my own?" 

“ But did you see a vision telling you of a place 
called ‘ The Bloody Cavern ’, and a lot of naughty 
people, among them willful young ladies, who were 
to be encountered on its cliffs ? " 

“ I needed no vision. Miss Ruthin,” he said, smil- 
ing pleasantly; “ willful young ladies are to be met 
everywhere, and I had to take a very naughty person 
with me wherever I went," 


54 


“ Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


“ You don’t mean to condemn yourself ? ” pursued 
the young lady. “ I thought you were a saint.” 

“And you find I am a sinner. Did you know I 
could be both ? ” 

“ The terms are not synonymous,” remarked Wini- 
fred. 

“ Certainly not ; they are contradictory.” 

Miss Lome in her turn looked puzzled. 

“ When we look away from ourselves, as I have 
said,” Mr. Archer continued, “ and see sin put away by 
the sacrifice of Another, and we ourselves complete 
in His perfection, a new nature is given us, indwelt 
by the Holy Ghost. The old evil principle remains, 
and ‘ these are contrary the one to the other ’, so that 
the Christian life is a constant warfare. The 
redeemed and renewed sinner is separated to God’s 
service — in other words, he becomes a saint, or sanc- 
tified one.” 

There was a long silence ; then Louie, with one 
of her quick changes of mood, said impulsively — 

“ I have a bad tongue, Mr. Archer.” 

“ I never knew any one who had a good one, Miss 
Ruthin.” 

Winifred looked thoughtful, as she ever did, when 
learning ; Louie bored. Ethel said nothing, and the 
expression of her face, as she shook hands with Mr. 
Archer, was calm and cold as ever. “ She is tired,” 
he thought. He did not know that she was always 
tired. He looked at her earnestly, which she did not 
appear to notice. It was hard not to be in earnest 
about her. 


CHAPTER VII. 


DOWN BY THE SEA. 

“Why did he look at me in that way?” mused 
Ethel, who was by no means as indifferent as she 
appeared. “ He thinks I am very ill — a great deal 
worse than I really am. I am not ill. I only want 
to get up a little strength, and these fresh breezes, 
instead of inducing sleep, will bring new life. I sup- 
pose he pities me; I don’t need it, and won’t be 
pitied by him.” 

And then Ethel, with the supineness which was 
constitutional with her, and which would not allow 
her to be long fretted about any thing, settled in her 
own mind that she did not care what Mr. Archer 
thought. 

She did care, however; she cared as much about it 
as she could about any thing. Ethel Ruthin was not 
naturally selfish, but there is no doubt ill health 
makes one so. She was naturally indolent, and this 
fault illness fostered and increased. Yet she was 
not incapable of deep and strong feeling ; only the 
depths of her nature had never been stirred, and cir- 
cumstances had not called it into action. She had an 
affectionate and sensitive nature lying like a warm 
under-current, whose existence was little suspected 
by the casual observer, beneath a calm and unde- 
monstrative manner. 


56 


Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


She learned a lesson that day down by the sea. 
There came upon her a vague feeling of unrest and 
anxiety. She tried to account for the unrest as a 
mere effect of physical weakness, but it was not so ; 
and she only half deceived herself by setting it down 
as this. She learned, too, that peace, deep and entire, 
could only be attained by looking away from herself 
to Another. That other was far off, and a stranger, 
it is true ; she saw “ no beauty in Him ” ; but it was 
much to have a sense of need awakened, and to know 
how alone that need could be met. 

“ I am not ill,” she said again, determined to 
assert the fact ; “ at least, not very ill. Any one would 
get strong down by the sea.” 

Ah ! but some of the fairest things earth has ever 
seen have gone down to, or lie wrecked beside that 
treacherous main! How many hearts anticipate in 
their impatient longing the mandate of the all- 
powerful One, “ Give up 1 ” 

Winifred Lome wandered there — Winifred alone. 
She wanted to “commune with her own heart” 
undisturbed, and so, as one she cared for before had 
done unknown to her, had come hither to face her- 
self. 

A book lay on her knee, a volume of Mrs. Barrett 
Browning’s poems, but she was not reading. 

“ It is true I have a poet’s mind,” she said, “ able 
to discern the beautiful where others might pass it 
by ; to weave strange fancies, and often grow sick 
with its own unexpressed desires. Often, too, I can 
roam delighted in a beautiful world of my own 
imagining, which is quite as real and a thousand times 


57 


Down by the Sea. 

fairer than this lower earth of ours — the living 
world, I mean ; for nature is in itself one grand poem. 
How could the gift of poesy be a heritage of woe, as 
that grave clergyman asserted ? I fancy he does not 
speak lightly, or from hasty conclusions, but can sup- 
port his assertions with plain matter-of-fact argu- 
ments. Well, perhaps a woman’s ideal is too pure 
and high ever to be reached on earth ; that the striv- 
ing after it produces unrest and dissatisfaction, the 
failure despair.” 

With which vague and poetical conclusion, which 
was like all the poetry of the day — though smooth 
in its flow, obscure in its meaning — Winifred came 
down to earth’s low realities. She began to question 
within herself whether she was selfish in being absent 
from home, and a vision of her mother, busied in 
preparing a dinner with “ strict economy”, occurred 
to her. In one moment she was back in the most 
prosaic details of household life. If she had a warm 
or poetic fancy, circumstances had always prevented 
its indulgence, and she found there was no time in her 
busy round for dreaming. Spoiled poet she might 
have been ; failure she certainly was not. There are 
heroes and heroines in obscurity of whom the world 
wots not, as well as martyrs in her “ dens and caves ”, 
“ of whom the world is not worthy ”. The hardest 
battles are not always fought in view of unassembled 
phalanx, nor the greatest victories proclaimed aloud 
by trumpet and drum. “ A man who can give up 
dreaming and go to his daily realities, who can smother 
down in his heart his love or woe, and take to the 
hard work of his hands — that man is life’s best hero.” 


58 


Afarvetous in Our Eyes A 


Is a Avoman less brave and true who can do this ? or 
is the “smothering down ” her normal condition? 

Winifred had her ideal (what young girl has not ?) 
and, with true womanly Aveakness and mistake, was 
investing a real, living person Avith qualities AA'hich 
he did not at all possess. It is sad indeed so to 
dream, because awaking to the fact that the worthi- 
ness was in one’s oAvn imagination alone, is so bitter ! 
To the young it is more cruel than death. Alas ! 
that the saddest of all losses should come to us as 
AA^e advance on life’s journey — a believing heart. 

Forthe second time in Winifred Lome’s young life 
she had been brought under the influence of true 
religion. Her Aunt Isabella was a sincere Christian, 
humbly striving in her daily walk and in uninterest- 
ing details of household duty to evince the spirit of 
her Master. In a different sphere, Winifred now saw 
Mr. Archer doing the same thing — one serving in 
public ministry, one quietly “doing the next thing”, 
hoAvever humble and insignificant it might be. 

Completely hidden from obser\^ation, in a rocky 
retreat, Winifred began dreamily Avatchingan active 
little figure running to and fro, now stooping, now 
climbing a few steps higher, on a headland near. It 
Avas Minnie Connor, gathering Carrigeen moss; and 
as she filled a small basket, Avhich was tied to 
her side, she sang to herself in clear and high 
tones — 


' I do not live In palace great, 

I care not now for rank or state, 

A lowlier lot is joy to me — 

To dwell beside the sounding sea, 


Down by the Sea. 


59 


To watch the wild waves swell and roar 
And break in foam upon the shore; 

A fisher’s child, a fisher’s mate — 

Be this my rank and this my state.” 

“ A very pretty song, but so pretty a maiden may 
desire a better lot than the fishing-cabin on th.e hill ! ” 
exclaimed a voice which Winifred knew only too 
well. 

Wishing to escape notice, and without a thought 
that in this case concealment could be wrong or 
overhearing dishonorable, Winifred drew a little 
further into her retreat. 

“ It is good enough for the likes of me,” was the 
modest reply ; “ leastways, it’s a deal dearer than the 
grandest place on airth.” 

“ Good enough ? Why, I should say, my sea- 
flower, nothing was too good for you,” was the 
ardent response. “ Stay a moment ; I wish to make 
a drawing of that cliff, and shall draw you too. I can - 
not lose my pretty picture. Give me your hand ; I 
must place you in a proper position to adorn the 
view.” 

An indignant exclamation from Minnie Connor at 
this smiling but impudent speech nearly drew Wini- 
fred from her hiding-place, but, recollecting herself, 
by a great effort she controlled the rising tide of 
passion, and pressing both her hands upon her heart, 
and with flushed cheeks and eyes flashing with a 
light it would be unpleasant to meet, crouched 
further back beneath the sheltering rock. 

“ I will let her deal with him alone,” she muttered. 

“ Let the false nature and the pure speak out. If she 


6o 


Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


is a true woman and not an untaught coquette, she 
will rebuke and expose him to himself, or restore his 
faith in womankind. Let the hand of the poor fisher- 
girl humble him, instead of his humbling her. At 
present my interference would be ill-judged.” 

Winifred was not mistaken in her confidence in the 
girl. In a quivering tone, yet with simple dignity 
which might have gone straight to the heart of 
another man, the peasant-girl said slowly, 

“ I am the Widow Connor’s child, an’ the promised 
wife of Will Joyce.” 

Her faith in the two beings whose special charge 
she was, and whose love she repaid with her 
young heart’s devotion, was most touching. Tears 
sprang to the concealed listener’s eyes, but the better 
nature of the man beside her was not aroused. 

“ Pretty one,” he said, in a voice which, though low, 
was but too distinct — “ I wish I could say my pretty 
one — you do well to love your good mother, though, 
shut out from the world as she has so long been, she 
is rather hard upon a young girl like you in bringing 
you up only to sell fish and gather weeds on the sea- 
shore. You ought to be dressed in a way more 
suited to your beauty, and surrounded by pretty 
things ; go forth to see the world and enjoy yourself 
as other young girls do, to whom fate has been less 
cruel. Why think of Will Joyce at all ? he is but a 
common fisher-lad, honest though he may be. Let 
him find some mate more like himself. You might 
marry almost any one ; ay, even a gentleman.” 

There was no reply. Oh ! did she waver ? Not for 
one moment was her pride in her lover shaken. She 


Doivn by the Sea. 6i 

felt instinctively his marvelous superiority, rough 
and uneducated though he might be, to the false man 
beside her, and had smiled in derision, as she heard 
him assailed, to think how little Will Joyce would 
affront an honest maiden ! Not for one moment was 
discontent at her lot awakened ; not for one moment, 
good heart and true ! not for one moment, pure mind 
and simple ! A cry, half terror, half anger, burst 
from her lips, quickly succeeded by another, Wini- 
fred started to her feet, and rushed forth. As she 
did so, a perfect avalanche of clay, weeds, and heavy 
stones came sweeping down the steepest side of the 
cliff. Following them appeared what at first sight 
seemed only a dark, shapeless mass. Then there was 
a waving in the air, as if some enormous bird had 
been frightened from its rocky nest ; and round the 
light yet muscular form of Frank Ruthin there 
twined the long sinewy arms of Danny Connor. 
Active and sure-footed, Minnie sprang forward over 
the sharp and treacherous rocks to separate them, 
while Winifred, with lips compressed and knitted 
brow, stood to witness the deadly struggle, scorning 
to interfere. Not a particle of wounded pride or 
selfish regret filled her mind then ; she felt for the 
fisher-girl as if she had been her sister, making her 
cause her own, and was thankful that she had a 
natural protector, who would notallow harm to come 
to her — the simple “sea-flower”, as she had been by 
the artist’s fancy not inaptly called. 

On the summit of the rock they swayed ; to the 
verge they tottered. Frank Ruthin was wary, active, 
and courageous ; but every effort he put forth was 


62 


Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


vain, and only expended the strength he would 
need for the final struggle. He could not unbind, 
or in any way resist the clasp of those long bony 
arms, which held him as in a vise. That clasp 
seemed more than human ; he felt as if he were in 
the embrace of some monster, calm in the intensity 
of its passion. Again and again he tried to twist 
himself free, in vain ! 

Now nearer and nearer to the rocky brow they 
come, until they totter on its very brink, swaying 
backward and forward as if unconscious of, or 
indifferent to, their perilous position. A loud cry of 
horror burst from Minnie; Winifred’s pale lips parted, 
though she uttered no sound. Then, feeling the 
ground giving way beneath his feet, Danny Connor 
was seen to lift his adversary from the place where 
he stood, and twining his arms more securely around 
him, to spring out into the dark and troubled water, 
his victim still locked in a deadly embrace. 

Moments passed ; moments of horror, moments 
that seemed ages, and then there rose a dark and 
confused mass to the surface of the water, and the 
great arms of the fisher-lad — like enormous propellers 
— struck out for the shore. He staggered on the wet 
shingles, shook himself like some great water-animal, 
and began slowly, and with unusual difficulty, to 
ascend the rocks, not deigning to glance behind. 
Minnie called to him, and would have gone to his 
assistance, but he only half turned his head, feebly 
smiled, and hastened on his way. Then, half-borne 
by the waves, with little vitality save the power' of 
an occasional stroke in the instinct of self preserva- 


Down by the Sea. 63 

tion, came in a fainting and bruised form. His feet 
touched the shore, he staggered, and fell insen- 
sible. 

Then Winifred’s womanly instinct awoke. Calm 
and cold, as though she looked upon a strange form, 
she advanced, and, motioning to Minnie, the two 
girls drew it further on the sands, beyond the reach 
of the rising tide. Supernatural strength seemed to 
be given her. Minnie, despite her slight figure, long 
inured to hardship and a strain upon her muscular 
powers, proved no small help. Then they bent over 
him — these two young women of different birth and 
station, of different habits and education, yet one in 
a sisterhood of pure thought and feeling— these two 
women whom his admiration had shamed, his love 
would have injured. Winifred bound his forehead, 
from a wound in which the blood was streaming, 
with her neckerchief, loosened his neckcloth, and 
unfastened his waistcoat. Then, severely cold as 
ever, she placed her hand upon his heart; it beat 
still. Rising up, she threw her arms suddenly, with 
an uncontrollable impulse, round the girl beside 
her. 

“ Minnie,” she said, “ call your mother ; I shall 
stay here. We must not alarm his sisters ; one of 
them, you know, is very delicate. And— oh ! God 
bless you, Minnie ! you have saved me from myself 
—saved me, perhaps, from a life of misery with 
him ! " 

And thus deliverance came to Winifred down by 
the sea. Thus the prayer her aunt had taught her 
was answered, though she thought not of it. 


64 


“ Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


And from the hill-top came borne to her a wild, 
wailing recitative — 

“ Wrecked ! wrecked ! 

Out on the sea, down on the shore, 

Never to come again — 

Nevermore ! ” 

Were Winifred’s fairest hopes utterly wrecked ? 
Would the belief in truth come back to her “ never- 
more ” ? 


CHAPTER VIII, 

DIVIDED LIVES. 

“ Miss Lorne — 

“ Well, Mr. Ruthin ? ” 

“ Winifred — ” 

“Well, Mr. Ruthin?” 

“ Why do you look at me so coldly? speak to me 
so strangely? or rather, you scarcely notice me 
at all.” 

“ What do you wish ? ” 

“ What I had before ; or more, far more than I 
had before. I want to know your love is mine.” 

“That you can never know.” 

“ Never, Winifred ? I thought there was a time 
when I might woo and win you— when I dared to 
hope you cared for me.” 

There was no answer. The silence emboldened 
Frank Ruthin to speak; it did more— it irritated, 
almost maddened him. What he deemed at first a 
mere girlish pique or fancy was assuming a real and 
terrible form ; what he had most desired appeared to 
be slipping from his grasp. He had prized it when 
it seemed attainable ; a thousand-fold more he prized 
it when there was a possibility of his losing it for- 
ever. His lip did not curl now ; it was firmly set. 
He said to himself that he would not lose the prize 


66 . 


Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


for which he strove, would not fall short of the goal 
when it appeared in view. This girl, for whose sake 
he was willing to forego all he had deemed pleasure, 
to win whom he had almost determined to struggle 
and be strong, to conquer himself and become wor- 
thy, should not cast his love aside and wreck his life. 
He would break down the barriers of reserve ; it 
might only be some trifling misunderstanding. He 
was not without an inkling of the truth, however, 
for in some way (though how much she knew he 
could not tell) he connected her coolness with his 
light bantering with Minnie Cojmor. Perhaps the 
little fisher-girl had enlightened the young lady. 
Whatever it might be, he would come at the truth 
at once. 

“ Winifred,” he said, in the calm, hard tone of con- 
centrated feeling, “ to win your love has been the 
one bright dream of my life ; a hope that has led me 
on as no other has done or could do. One question 
I must ask: did you ever care for me?” 

A flush mounted to Winifred’s pale forehead, but 
she drew herself up and met his gaze with a stead- 
fast, unflinching expression, though her eyes burned 
with a strange light. Her lips parted as if to speak, 
then quivered, and closed. But she was a brave girl ; 
she set herself to say what was best to be said, and 
conquered. 

“Yes,” she said, slowly and distinctly, “ I did care 
for you.” 

“ And do still,” he rejoined, eagerly pressing for- 
ward, and taking her hand in both his own. “You 
do still,” 


Divided Lives. 


67 


“ I do not.” 

The tone conveyed far more than the words. 

“ What have I done to forfeit your regard ? Win- 
ifred, this is some pique or womanly weakness 
unworthy of you. Winifred, my prize, my hope, my 
only love, what can I do to merit your affection ? 
Only say you care for me, only promise to be my 
wife, and if it be in the power of man to shield the 
being he tenderly loves from harm, to make her life 
bright and happy with all that affection can render 
or procure, you need not fear for the future. Only 
say this, Winifred ! ” 

“ I can not say it, Frank Ruthin. I do not care 
for you.” 

He started as though he had been stung. As on 
the night when a train of thought led to a brief 
review of his own aimless life, he recoiled, as it were, 
from himself. 

“Has any one maligned me to you?” he ques- 
tioned, in hoarse tones. “ Perhaps the little fisher- 
maid who lives on the rock has sought to while away 
her idle hours by idle tales. There are many such, 
who, without any evil intent, work much mischief 
by misrepresenting truth, or, more openly and boldly, 
venture on untruth.” 

He had spoken wittingly, only alluding to Minnie 
Connor as feeling his way, and testing Miss Lome’s 
information. When he had recovered consciousness 
by the sea-shore he found himself only attended by 
the widow and her daughter. Nobody told him 
Winifred had been there, and was gone. The fisher- 
girl withdrew without a word pr look when she saw 


68 “ Marvelous in Our Eyes." 

he was sufficiently recovered to stand alone, and her 
mother, if she suspected the truth, did not in any 
way enlighten the young gentleman. His later sur- 
mise as to the cause of Winifred’s displeasure was 
now to be speedily confirmed. 

He had gone a step too far in supposing she could 
listen to idle tales, or hear one maligned in his 
absence. It was the last drop that caused the cup 
of indignation to overflow. She rose from her seat, 
holding the arm of her chair with a tight grasp, which 
forced back the blood from the slender fingers. Her 
eyes flashed with a fire which he had never before 
encountered, but her voice was clear and even cold, 
as she said, 

“ Do not so wrong the simple fisher-girl, Mr. 
Ruthin ; you have vexed her enough already.” 

“ How do' you know that?” he returned, hastily. 
“ Miss Lome, listen to me ; I never exchanged a 
word with this girl save to pay her a few idle com- 
pliments, such as any man may offer to any woman, 
young or old. Have you heard of them?” 

Steadily Winifred looked upon him, then replied 
' slowly — 

“ I heard every false word you uttered, and never 
again can trust in or believe you. I stood in the 
entrance of the cave ready to appear for the poor 
girl you annoyed, if need be. I do not, and never 
can love you.” 

Was this true ? Was the image she had enshrined 
so easily effaced? the love all turned to bitterness? 
Yes, she had torn it front her heart, and wounded 
pride came to her assistance ; but yet the pain was 


Divided Lives. 69 

great, and where that image had been was a sore 
place indeed. 

In vain Frank Ruthin implored ; the more impas- 
sioned he grew, the more composed she became. 
He felt terribly aggrieved. What had he done to 
warrant this summary dismissal ? He was made 
“an offender for a word”, and deemed wholly 
untrue. It was “ unjust, unreasonable, unworthy,” 
he argued ; but not all the “ uns ” he could muster 
appeared to make the least impression on Miss Lome, 
or moved her from her purpose. Quietly but decid- 
edly she rejected his affection, and refused to link 
her fate with his. 

At length he became angry ; his vanity was 
wounded, his self-love assailed. In the power of 
his wrath Miss Lome’s influence over him began to 
wane, and she sank many degrees in his esteem. 
He even descended to taunting her indirectly with 
eaves-dropping — an accusation which she scorned to 
resent. 

And so they parted. Over how many divided 
lives may this be written ? Of how many, once 
closely allied in the bonds of friendship, or still 
closer tenderness, may it be said their paths, which 
once seemed to run together, and even mingle, 
became 

“ Like broken clouds, or like the stream 
That, smiling, left the mountain’s brow, 

As though its waters ne’er could sever ; 

Yet, ere it reach the plain below, 

Breaks into floods, that part foreVer ” ? 

To the surprise of the listers, Winifred that even- 


70 


“ Marvelous in Our Eycsy 


ing announced her intention of returning home 
immediately, as her mother must require her pres- 
ence. 

“And do not I require you?” exclaimed Louie, 
with a comic air. “ My sister is too languid, my 
brother too sulky, and the parson too good to enter- 
tain me ; so I could only wander alone, sighing sad 
strains to the sea-weed. Now, am I not a poetess?” 

“ It has a smooth sound,” returned Winifred, 
smiling. 

“ Well, that is all the greater part'of poetry can 
boast of,” said Louie ; “ and when one does get hold 
of a bright idea, it only seems a sort of happy hit 
which might as well be made in prose.” 

After the diversion thus caused, Ethel turned to 
Winifred, and said gravely, 

“Will you leave me?" 

“There is no need,” said Frank, looking up from 
a book he was reading, or pretending to read ; “ I 
return to town to-morrow.” 

These few words at once gave his sisters to under- 
stand his new relations with their friend. His admi- 
ration for her was no secret, and it was more than sus- 
pected that she returned his affection. Now, however, 
all was changed. Louie looked wonderingly from one 
to another; she was burning with curiosity to know 
all about it, yet did not venture to inquire, being, in 
spite of all h&x badinage and resistance, a little afraid 
of her brother, and still more of Winifred. Ethel 
glanced at them also, sighed wearily, closed her 
eyes, and with the action banished from her mind all 
attempt at a .“jolution of the mystery. 


Divided Lives. 


71 


That evening Winifred walked alone to Mrs. Con- 
nor’s cottage. Minnie was not there, having gone, 
as usual, to meet Will Joyce on his return from fish- 
ing. The widow, who had learned the whole story 
of Mr. Ruthin’s rude admiration of her daughter, on 
their return to the cabin, and interpreted aright the 
young lady’s words and action, expressive of grati- 
tude, rose to meet her visitor, kindly inviting her to 
enter and be seated. 

“ I came to see your daughter,” Winifred began. 

“I know it, miss. You spoke some words to-day 
that made her feel she had helped you in some way, 
without knowin’ it, an’ she is glad at heart for this, 
though sorry for being shamed.” 

“Shamed! Mrs. Connor?” Winifred exclaimed. 
“ But for what has happened I never should have 
known your daughter’s worth. For some reason or 
other, we ladies are apt to think those beneath us in 
birth and education have not the same pure feelings 
and sense of right which we have. I have learned 
differently to-day.” 

“Ah, my lady!” the widow said, “I think when 
we are true to ourselves we are true to others too. 
A good deed does not pass to one only, but to many, 
helpin’ us to believe in our fellow-creatures, an’ be 
patient an’ strong an’ right. Leastways, I am sure 
God follows a good act of any kind with His bless- 
ing, either in this world or the next.” 

“ What a strange mind ! ” thought Winifred, as a 
train of reflection was awakened in her own. “ Has 
she reasoned all this out for herself?” Then aloud: 
“You must lead a lonely life here.” 


72 


“ Marvelous in Our Eyes. 


“ No, my lady, Minnie is as light an’ happy as a 
bird, and I — ” she paused ; “ have every thin’.” 

“ Every thing!” echoed Winifred; “you must be 
a very happy woman. I, a lady, have nothing.” 

She spoke with a touch of bitterness, which Mrs. 
Connor perceiving, drew nearer. 

“ My dear young lady,” she said, “ forgive a faith- 
ful word from an old an’ humble woman. I live in 
a hut on a wild, lone rock ; our food is plain an’ livin’ 
coarse ; but I see God is for me, or why did He give 
His Son out of heaven to die? An’ if He is for me, 
so great an’ good an’ lovin’, how can I really want 
for anything? I may think I want many things, 
for I am as wake as the silly moth that flies intp the 
candle, or the baby that cries for what would only 
sicken it ; but God knows best, an’ I am sure He 
would not keep back any thin’ that is fittin’.” 

“ It is a happy faith,” sighed Winifred. 

“Well you may say that, miss! Oh, dear lady, if 
you have trusted to any thin’ that has disappointed 
you, be thankful ! for mayhap God is goin’ to give 
you somethin’ better. When He takes any thin’ 
away, you may be sure He is ready to fill the gap.” 

Winifred w^as silent for a long time ; deep and 
strong emotion was working in her mind, and she 
had no one to whom to express it. If her Aunt 
Isabella were near she would have poured into her 
sympathetic ear the thoughts that troubled her. As 
it was, she felt wholly alone, and it is a terrible 
thing for the young to feel. It has sunk many to 
depths of misery which one shudders to contemplate. 
God might specially favor this poor woman, or in 


Divided Lives. 


73 


her strange reasoning' she might persuade herself He 
did, but He seemed very far off to the young lady, 
as He must to every soul who has not been brought 
nigh in Christ Jesus. Then suddenly there came 
into her mind a remembrance of what Mr. Archer 
had said, “ This Man ! " Oh, was there indeed a 
living, loving Person to whom no woe was light, and 
no burden unfelt which oppressed and tortured the 
poor, weak human heart? Might she — dared she go 
to Him with her trouble — with her coldness and 
insensibility? 

The poor unlettered woman beside her possessed 
a secret, she knew, to which, with her superior 
advantages of birth and intellect, she might covet to 
attain. She would test its source. 

“ How can God love us when He makes our way 
dark, and our lives hard and bitter? ’’she asked, 
venturing the question that first occurred to her. 

“ It is because He loves us He does so, alanive”* 
was the brief reply. In her earnest desire to help 
the young lady, the Widow Connor addressed her as 
tenderly as if she were indeed a child. “ We often 
choose somethin’ that would work us a deal of harm 
if we got it, and the Lord won’t give it to us, not 
for all our cryin’. Ye wouldn’t put poison into 
the hand of a child because he asked for it, surely ? 
An’ then, agen, we often think a deal too much of 
what He does give us, and not at all of Himself, and 
so He takes it out of the way. It was so with me, at 
all events,” and the woman turned her wistful gaze 


* “ My child. 


74 


“ Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


seaward ; “an’ Minnie’s father •an’ my fine boy lie 
under the white waves out yon.” 

“ Better know they were there and remember them 
as true, than have them live and be false,” broke out 
the young rebellious spirit. 

“Ay, ay, miss, surely. God save us from false- 
hood ! My young lady, there is such a thing as a 
sad undoing to many a fond wooing. If my Minnie 
was coorted by one who was not worthy of her, I 
had rather she found out his badness in time than 
marry him to her lifelong complaining ; for be sure 
if her love didn’t rise him an’ keep him straight 
when he was her lover, it never would when he 
was her husband. Rather,” and the woman spoke 
with fierce energy, “ than see her the wife of the 
grand gentleman who offended her on the rocks 
to-day, I would follow my purty little girl to the 
grave.” 

Winifred could not reply, and soon after rose to 
leave. One impression Avas made on her mind by 
her conversation with Minnie Connor’s mother — that 
she had an escape from a lifelong misery that day 
for which she should feel deeply thankful, and there 
was a love Avhich could make her happy in spite of 
all earthly ill. For this love she noAv craved. 

As she was returning she met Minnie clinging to 
the arm of a young sailor. He was tall, and strongly- 
built, and his bronzed face had a frank and honest 
expression, Avhich augured \\^ell for the girl’s future 
happiness. She smiled upon the young lady as they 
passed. Ah ! she was happy ; but from Winifred 
had gone the believing heart. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE GAP FILLED. 

When Danny Connor turned away from the brow 
of the cliff, a thought which completely discomfited 
possessed his mind with overwhelming force, leaving 
him a prey to different emotions. He had brought 
sorrow upon her who was his ideal of all excellence, 
whose beauty rose before his dull perceptions like a 
radiant vision — too far to reach, yet not too far for 
its influence to be felt. No mere ordinary admira- 
tion — not a shadow of vain desire flitted across the 
poor lad’s mind in connection with Miss Ruthin. 
She was to him “ the bright particular star ” which 
shone from heaven over his dark and lonely path, as 
a star pure and distant, yet cold as beautiful. And 
now he had injured her, imbittered her life, perhaps 
murdered her brother ! As the thought grew upon 
him, poor Danny could have returned to the coast, 
and tenderly nursed the life of the man he hated — of 
the man who had affrighted and insulted the sister 
he loved. Poor Danny was in a sore strait. 

He did the wisest thing that could occur to a 
sensible man under similar circumstances — he made 
a confidante of his mother. It was from him she 
learned the completion of the story which Minnie had 
in part related. 


76 


Marvelous in Our Eyes” 

Mrs. Connor was not a little alarmed on her boy’s 
account, fearing the treachery and vengeance of the 
so-called gentleman. All she could do was to coun- 
sel, exhort, command the lad to keep as much out of 
Mr. Ruthin’s way as possible, secreting himself if 
necessary, rather than risk an encounter. 

Happily, however, all this apprehension and cau- 
tion was rendered needless by the sudden disappear- 
ance of the young gentleman from Cliffcoole. To 
Winifred Lome as to the Widow Connor — two women 
so differently circumstanced — his absence was an 
-inexpressible relief. Winifred never wavered in her 
decision ; never relented in her hardness toward 
him. The dream of her youth was gone. 

She was to be thoroughly humbled. To a proud, 
sensitive spirit like hers, the thought that she had 
been classed with other women, and loved by one too 
susceptible of other charms, caused every nerve to 
throb, and her cheeks to burn with impatience, 
shame, and anger. She could have struck at her 
own image as she saw it, fair and independent, 
reflected in a mirror. She not only despised her old 
lover, but despised herself for having been the object 
of his admiration. And yet while she despised she 
rose immeasurably abpve, and looked down at him 
from a pure altitude, as though she were breathing 
another air, and he groveling in the dust at her 
feet. 

She grew calm at last, and, going to a window, 
looked forth. There slept the sea at a little dis- 
tance, “ like a cradled creature,” sunlight breaking 
over its dancing ripples like smiles — the very emblem 


The Gap Filled. 77 

of gladness. Not of unrest now, surely, but peace 
— deep, almost unbroken peace. 

How did some words once heard, but long 
unheeded or forgotten, arise in her memory ? Was it 
not a heavenly impulse ? 

“ O that thou hadst harkened to My command- 
ments ! then had thy peace been as a river, and thy 
righteousness as the waves of the sea.” 

She took up her Bible ; it opened at the words — 

And this is His commandment, That we should believe on the 
name of His Son Jesus Christ, and love one another, as He gave us 
commandment. And he that keepeth His commandments dwelleth 
in Him, ard He in him ; and hereby we know that He abideth in us 
by the Spirit which He hath given us. (i John iii., 24, 25.) 

And falling upon her knees beside the casement, 
Winifred poured out her soul in one short petition — 

“ Lord, reveal Thyself to me ! ” 

Of course that prayer was answered, for when did 
His gracious promise lack fulfillment ? This was the 
secret of the deep peace which bathed her spirit in a 
profound calm, and stole over each sense like a 
powerful charm. It was nothing less than the charm 
of “ a new birth ”. In that wondrous light she saw 
the truth Mr. Archer had earnestly endeavored to 
set forth — the precious truth that through this Man 
— the Saviour — God, the One who stooped to share 
our humanity, and touch the leper, who shrank not 
from the shameful vicarious death on Calvary — was 
preached unto her “ the forgiveness of sins ”. Her 
thirsty soul— thirsty for the living springs at last- 
had reached the fountain of life. 

She now knew that from its nature, every thing 


'^Marvelous in Onr Eyes." 


7B 

else was unsatisfying to an immortal spirit. She 
was young, and had been full of hope ; but even 
before God allowed the cup of earthly happiness to 
be taken from her lips, she felt a need of something 
as yet beyond her reach. Not till “ weary and worn 
and sad”, did she recognize what that something 
was. 

Heaven-born longing, heaven-born supplies alone 
can meet it. Who ever so longed and was sent 
unsatisfied away ? Not one. 

Jesus stood and cried. If any man thirst, let him come unto Me 
and drink. (John vii., 37.) 

For with Thee is the fountain of life. 

The gap in Winifred’s heart was filled ; the gap of 
which the poor woman had spoken. Never again 
could an aching void be there ; never again an idol 
enshrined. “ The expulsive power of a new affec- 
tion ” was realized ; the love of Christ made room 
for itself, and filled her soul with a glad sense of 
liberty — a deep, sweet sense of rest. 

Long time Winifred remained in her chamber ; she 
could not bear to leave it. She felt what the Chris- 
tian poet has so well expressed — 

" I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm 
And break the charm, 

Which lulls me, clinging to my Father’s breast 
In perfect rest.” 

From that moment she did not stand alone. With 
new life, new hopes and affections were awakened in 
her breast. She knew instinctively who among 
her acquaintance were one with her in Christ, and 


The Gap Filled. 


79 


thought of them with peculiar tenderness. Her 
aunt, Mrs. Connor, Mr. Archer, of these she had no 
doubt. She envied the latter his holy boldness and 
faithfulness; but then, as a minister, an open confes- 
sion of Christ was expected of him. Side by side 
with regard for these servants of her newly-found 
Lord and Master sprang up a yearning pity for those 
who knew Him not, and missed the blessing which 
had come to her. Especially from that moment was 
one upon her heart — her friend and companion, the 
beautiful and careless Ethel Ruthin. Who has not 
felt that — 


“ A thing of beauty is a joy forever ? ” 

It seemed strange to Winifred, as to others, that 
so much loveliness could fade and pass away into 
the dark unknown. For herself, she knew now that 
brightness lay beyond this passing scene, but for her 
friend — ? Yes, Winifred had a work directly 
given her by God, to tend, and, with earnest prayer, 
“watch for the soul ” of this young creature, who, 
hard as it was to believe it, she felt persuaded was 
fading away from earth. How thankful she was now 
that she had not left Cliffcoole in her mortification 
and despair. How plainly she saw a Father’s guid- 
ing care in Frank Ruthin’s removal (as she had no 
doubt he was influenced for her good), leaving her 
at liberty to remain with his sister. 

Thankful for her escape from the thrall of an affec- 
tion which would have dragged her down and held 
her tied to earth ; thankful for her escape from a 
union subversive of her best interests, and in which 


8o 


“ Marvelous in Our Eyes,” 


spirit could never blend with spirit in full commun- 
ion, the girl looked upward, and rejoiced. 

Yes, the gap was filled ! 

“ Winifred,” said Ethel, one evening, as she reclined 
on her cushions, “I am growing weary of this scene 
— all sea and sky.” 

“ And rocks and distant shipping,” added Wini- 
fred, with a smile. 

“I can’t bear the rocks!” returned Ethel, pettishly. 
“ I always feel as if I were tumbling down them ; and 
the shipping is suggestive of storms.” 

“ There are descents as dangerous and wrecks as 
dire in life,” said Winifred, gravely. “ It were wise 
to avoid them.” 

“ Cease moralizing, Winifred dear. I am too 
weary for the poet’s madness.” 

“ But not for the Christian’s sanity,” was the calm 
reply. 

“Rest!” returned Ethel, dreamily. “After all, 
mere rest is a poor thing. When my cough is trou- 
blesome, and I am very tired, I only desire to lie 
down quietly ; but I look at the young fisher-girl, or 
Louie with her high spirits, bounding from rock to 
rock, dashing out into the surf as it rushes madly in, 
or tossing idly on the water in a boat, and think 
what a glorious thing is life. Oh, to be well, and 
glad, and strong ! This slow, wearisome existence of 
mine is not worth having; it is slow dying, not living.” 

She spoke with unusual vehemence ; never, indeed, 
had she manifested such emotion ; and Winifred, 
though astonished, was pleased to find her mind thus 
exercised, her heart avowedly unsatisfied. She was 


The Gap Filled. 


8r 


about to reply, when a knock was heard at the door 
and Mr. Archer announced. Winifred was thankful 
for this interruption, and determined to lead the 
conversation again to what had gone before. 

“ We were considering whether the mere thought 
of rest has as much charm for the young as for the 
more advanced in life, the sorrowful, worn-out, and 
weary,” she began, when the first greetings were over. 

“ I do not think it has,” he replied ; “ it is .to those 
‘ who labor and are heavy-laden’ the promise is dear. 
There is one thought, however, which has wondrous 
power for all — the possession of life. Spiritual life 
in the soul through simple faith in the Son of God, 
connecting us with Him, and born in us by His Holy 
Spirit, secures and fits us for eternal life hereafter, 
when body, as well as spirit, shall be glorified, and 
every sense employed in a service of endless joy.” 

“ You do not, then, think eternal life a present 
possession ? ” asked Winifred, anxiously. 

“ I do, indeed,” he said, meeting her look with 
one of extreme interest. “ I am sure it is a present 
possession. This spiritual life is not only an earnest, 
it is eternal life begun, a communication from the 
Lord Himself, which has a beginning in us, but never 
can have an ending.” 

Winifred was silent, but there was a light in her 
face which he read aright. 

“ It is a great possession,” he continued. “ Well 
may it be said — 

“ ' He lives who lives to God alone. 

And all are dead beside.’ 


You know this? ’ 


82 “ Marvelous in Our Eyes." 

“Yes,” answered Winifred, in- a low but decided 
tone. 

Ethel looked from one to the other in a manner 
expressive of surprise. Then she spoke : 

“ Too many of us live at a poor dying rate, yet 
none of us wish to ‘shuffle off this mortal coil’. 
Why has the state you extol so few charms ? ” 

• “ Simply because ‘ the natural man receiveth not 

the things of the Spirit of God ; they are foolish- 
ness unto him.’ You can not create a spiritual 
appetite ; you can not even awaken an anxious 
thought. A sense of need must be begun in the 
soul by the same mighty Power which alone can 
meet it.” 

“ So we have nothing to do but wait until an 
overpowering impulse comes upon us?” inquired 
Ethel, satirically. 

“ That would be wresting Scripture to our own 
destruction,” he answered, gravely. “ It does not 
warrant us so to do. God expects us as reasonable 
creatures to provide for eternity, and as fallen creat- 
ures to seek pardon at His hands and restoration 
to His favor through faith in the atonement of His 
Son.” 

“ What do you call faith ? ” was Ethel’s next 
question. 

“Simply taking God at His word, and resting in 
His promise. How can we, who have so little here 
below, and whose spirits can not be satisfied with 
the poor things of earth, refuse His proffered 
mercy ? ” 

“ We are never satisfied,” 


The Gap Filled. 83 

Ethel was in a strange mood this even, and spoke 
with strange vehemence. 

“ I know it,” he said, drawing his chair nearer, 
and bending over her ; we can not be. Our 
immortal spirits can not be fed with husks, and 
never grow weary in a vain search after earthly hap- 
piness. How blessed to have a portion which can 
never fail us ! ” 

“ That portion I have not,” sighed Ethel Ruthin 
to herself, but she did not express the thought 
aloud ; “ and if — if — health and strength should 
never be mine again, I need it much.” 

Looking up suddenly, she met Mr. Archer’s gaze. 
As by the sea-shore, it was bent on her with a gen- 
tle, grave pity, not devoid of tenderness. A thrill 
went through the girl’s heart, and her woman’s 
nature was awakened as it had never been before. 
Winifred, too, saw and read that look aright. There 
was danger for him in this involuntary homage to 
mere beauty — danger in his kindly interest. Youth 
and beauty may fade, and feelings can deepen in 
intensity until they make the sum of life’s hope and 
bliss. 

And Ethel — yes, at last she was awakened to a 
sense of need, and would have the gap in her heart 
filled. 


CHAPTER X. 


OUT OF THE DEEP. 

Winifred did not return home ; she felt, in her 
newly-found love and pity, that her place was beside 
her friend then ; and if, as she feared, life was fail- 
ing, might she not minister to her to the last ? Win- 
ifred knew she had an influence over Ethel — the 
influence a strong mind has over a weak one. This 
might be used for good. 

A few lines in a letter to her aunt revealed t^e 
state of her mind, and was a cause of deep thankful- 
ness to that good lady. They were these : 

I think the prayer you taught me has been answered. Do you 
remember it ? 

It was remembered. 

Seed may not have been sown in vain because it 
lies a long time in the ground without germinating. 
“ Thou shalt find it after many days,” is the promise. 

In God’s purposes of love and mercy He weaves 
circumstances together, like tangled skeins and frag^ 
ments, into a web which shall shine with heaven’s 
light through the power of truth long unheeded, or 
prayer perhaps forgotten. 

Mr. Archer was a constant visitor at the Ruthins’, 
and devised many plans for the amusement of the 
young ladies, ever watchful of Ethel’s health and 


Out of the Deep. 85 

comfort. One day he announced that his sister and 
younger brother were expected to visit him. Wini- 
fred was pleased at the prospect of having a suita- 
ble companion in the sister ; Louie, in the brother. 
Ethel alone complained, in a pettish manner, after 
the clergyman was gone, that new acquaintances 
were a bore, and she did not feel equal to forming 
new friendships. 

That evening the girls sat in the murky twilight 
until the shades grew deeper and denser, and at last 
darkness covered the earth. Then one by one the 
stars came glimmering through the dim vault of 
heaven, like precious promises in seasons of adver- 
sity, tokens of God’s presence where all besides is 
gloom. There had been “ a stiff breeze ” during the 
day, and now the harbor was full of shipping. One 
by one they hung out their lights, until, wherever 
the eye turned, the bosom of the dark water was 
illumined ; in their midst was a deep red beacon 
over a sunken rock, and far away, beyond the 
entrance to the harbor, stood out boldly the light- 
house on its rocky fastness, turning its warning 
gleam on all sides. 

“ What a glorious panorama!” exclaimed Ethel, 
with interest. 

“ As this quiet seaside scene appears favorable to 
reflection, I was thinking it was like life,’,’ answered 
Winifred. 

“ How ? ” 

“ Each bark with its freight of hopes and fears, 
immortal souls and failing bodies, is tossing at the 
mercy, as it seems, of wind and tide. Even so wq 


86 


Marveloiis in Our Eyes.''' 


also are swayed by circumstances ; yet each should 
have a light hung out.” 

“ And that light ? Finish the simile,” Louie 
retorted, smartly. 

“ A witness for the Lord who loves us,” was the 
low but decided reply. 

“ How can we have that? ” asked Ethel. 

“By having the light in our own souls first ; then 
I suppose it would be reflected as it is this moment 
from the dark water, shining out through us as 
mediums, pure and clear.” 

“ But how could we have that light within ? ” 
again questioned Ethel. 

“ By believing on the Lord Jesus Christ. I know 
no other way.” 

“ I always thought I believed,” returned Ethel, 
almost in a whisper ; “ I took it for granted. But 
now when I try I can’t.” 

“ Don’t try.” 

“ What then ? ” 

“ Only believe. Don’t try to work up a faith ; if 
you did, you might trust in and make a Saviour of 
it. ‘ This is the work of God, that ye believe on 
Him whom He hath sent.’ Rest on the promise, 
trust in the proffered mercy, accept the atone- 
ment, the more simply and unquestioningly the 
better.” 

There was a long pause ; Ethel turned her gaze 
from the dark water, with its living freight, and cov- 
ered her eyes with her hand. Louie thought she 
was tired, but Winifred marked her breath come 
thick and fast as with a sudden emotion. None but 


Out of the Deep. 


87 

the Almighty Father who was looking out for His 
returning child heard the timid confession, “ Lord, 
I believe ! help Thou mine unbelief 

There was a profound silence during the next half 
hour. In that brief interval “ a mist came up out 
of the sea ” and rolled on to one side of the harbor, 
thus leaving it only partially illuminated. Then the 
stars began to wane and wax dim in the heavens, 
and there was a solemn eclipse. It was chilling and 
depressing. They watched the mist as it spread 
like a pall over the face of the deep, bounding their 
view and blotting out all beauty. 

Louie hummed a verse of “ The Sands o’ Dee ”. 

“ Hush, Louie, how can you ? ” said Ethel reprov- 
ingly. 

“Can’t you fancy you hear ‘the harbor-bar moan- 
ing’ through the gloom ? ” was the retort of the gay 
girl, whom nothing seemed to depress. 

At that moment a hoarse shout came from the 
water just opposite the quiet watchers, and, as it 
seemed, near the shore. 

“ Reverse ! ” was the deep warning ; but the words, 
“ You are right into us!” were not audible to the 
eager listeners. 

There was the noise of paddles reversed and bat- 
tling fiercely with the tide ; after it loud cries for 
help, and a confused murmur of many voices. Win- 
ifred, throwing a shawl over her head, rushed out, 
followed by Louie, in wild excitement, while Ethel 
sprang up and clung breathlessly to the casement. 
As the girls ran toward the rocks, two men passed 
them; one knocked against Winifred, and turning, 


88 “ Marvelous in Our Eyes.'' 

even in the hurry, to touch his cap, she recognized 
Will Jo3'^ce. 

“What has happened?” was the anxious^ inquiry. 

“A boat has been run down by the river steamer. 
They may have had a light out, but it was not seen 
in the fog ;* leastways, the steamer should have rung 
her bell,” was the hasty answer. 

“ Was any one in the boat ? ” 

“ In coorse, miss ! but how many we Can’t tell.” 

They could not ; but from all quarters came the 
sound of boats being unmoored and pushed off. 
Hoarse cries resounded ; strange directions, after- 
ward countermanded ; then the voice, as of one in 
authority, on the shore, answered by another from 
the steamer, which had stood by, rendering every 
assistance in her power. 

“ How many have been picked up?” 

“Three.” 

“ How many supposed to be on board?” 

And the sad-reply fell like a chilling blow upon 
the listeners’ hearts — 

“The men say ‘seven 

Then came the sound of oars dipping into the 
water in all directions — long, heavy, sullen splashes; 
otherwise all was still. 

No voice was raised among the anxious search- 
ers ; it was a dull, heavy, hopeless quest, in the dull, 
heavy, hopeless gloom. 

Winifred and Louie were now the center of a group 
of frightened women, straining every nerve to catch 
some word of hope, some token of another rescue ; 
but no such came. Minnie Connor was with them, 


Out of the Deep, 


89 


and her knowledge of the sea and its casualties sup-* 
plied much information respecting the boat which 
had been run down. A fishing-smack, it was apparent 
to all, with seven men on board, and four were miss- 
ing. Four missing — perhaps four even then in their 
death-struggle — lost in nature’s mysterious gloom 
because they could discern no light, heard no warn- 
ing sound ! 

Weary, sad, mourning for the lost beneath the 
wave, and for the ruined hearths and desolate hearts 
at home, Winifred, Ethel, and even the erewhile gay 
and thoughtless Louie, now thoroughly depressed, 
at last retired to rest. 

Some were gone beyond the hope of rescue — some 
were saved ! 

And that very night, where all seemed fair and the 
world looked not for wreck, out of the deep was 
brought one undying soul. From nature’s ruin and 
alienation, Ethel Ruthin was called into the sun- 
shine of God’s favor. She knew her sin was par- 
doned and put away ; she knew her soul had been 
redeemed at a m'ighty cost. “Out of the, deep” 
she called upon God, and was brought “ out of dark- 
ness into His marvelous light ”. It was a joyful 
event to her, but mingled ever with the recollection 
of it was a mourning for those who, without due 
warning, were ushered into eternity, and for the 
homes that night left desolate. 


CHAPTER XL 


SWEET COUNSEL. 

Some people walk into love with their eyes open. 
Some people creep into it, as it were, hesitating at 
every step, perhaps half wishing to flee. Others 
sink into it as into somnolence, under the influence 
of a narcotic, while too many fall the victims of an 
unworthy passion as they would tumble into some 
dread abyss. The greater number, however, slip, or 
slide, or dance, or tumble into it in a merry, unthink- 
ing manner, flinging pretty speeches at one another 
in play as children might do roses, and never discern- 
ing to what serious consequences it all tends. Of 
the latter were Louie Ruthin and Charlie Archer, 
the vicar’s brother. 

Young people who so readily fall in, often as 
readily fall out. Louie Ruthin never could exist in 
a still atmosphere. The wave of the ocean was not 
more changeful in its play than was her light spirit. 
Graceful, yet volatile ; variable, yet attractive ; she 
led young Archer captive indeed, and by her pretty 
insouciant air and exacting ways, as well as the very 
inconstancy of her moods, kept alive his alTection. 

They could scarcely have helped it, situated as 
they were. Daily thrown together, each looked upon 
the society of the other as a relief from enniii, and 


Sweet Comtsel. 


91 

the presence of a lively and agreeable companion 
did much to heighten the enjoyment of both. 

Miss Archer proved a most desirable companion. 
Several years older than her brother, intelligent and 
lady-like, she never exacted too much attention, but 
always studied the comfort and pleasure of others. 
The pleasant seaside party, with its absence of 
restraint and happy lack of conventionalities, was 
further augmented by the presence of “Aunt 
Isabella ”, who came at the humble request of Mr. 
Ruthin (nothing loth to escape the dry details of a 
poor economy) to matronize the young ladies during 
Master Frank Ruthin’s voluntary absence in town. 

How delightfully the next few weeks passed away ! 
Such rides, and drives, and boating parties! Many 
a time, with Will Joyce and Danny Connor to trim 
their boat and arrange the fishing-lines, they sailed 
far out beyond the entrance of the harbor, and 
secured a large quantity of fish. Sometimes a stream 
of moonlight silvered the calm tide as their light 
oars were dipped into it on returning, but this was 
not often, as all were willing to curtail their own 
pleasure rather than keep Ethel in the open air 
when the dews began to fall. Ethel, however, seemed 
truly to have imbibed new life and vigor, as was 
predicted. She brightened into an animation she 
had never before evinced ; and as a development of 
spiritual life aided physical restoration, the supine- 
ness of her nature seemed in a great measure cor- 
rected and overcome. Life appeared, after her long 
season of delicacy and inertness, opening before her 
at last fair and beautiful, with nothing to dim its 


92 


“ Marvelous in Our Eyes," 


light or hinder usefulness. Poor Danny, in these 
long bright excursions upon the water, often gazed 
furtively upon her with a sort of secret awe, as if 
she was already a glorified saint, while one was ever 
by her side, who, recognizing her weakness — the 
weakness of failing humanity— yet respected it, 
while sympathizing with the' better, nobler impulses 
awakened in her heart. Thus friendships were 
formed, and affections kindled, which might make 
existence -indeed blessed. Were they to outlive the 
storms as well as calm of life? Or to rush, and dash, 
and sever, as the wavelets which danced, and wooed, 
and kissed the shore, receding ever ? 

The bright summer passed away as no other had 
done for the young people there assembled, and 
Mr. Archer needed not to say he loved the beauti- 
ful and fragile creature who was the center of attrac- 
tion to all ; but every motion, even when he did not 
look toward her, showed it. She knew and felt it, 
perhaps, even better than he did ; and Winifred 
knew it too. 

“ Billie,” said the latter one day, as she was walk- 
ing with her aunt, “ do you think grace altogether 
changes our characters, so that they lose their dis- 
tinctive features? that it overturns nature, as it 
were ? ” 

“ Indeed, I am sure it does not do all that, my 
dear,” Miss Freeman answered. “ I think characters 
as well as faces have their features, and will have 
through all eternity. So God deals with each of us 
differently. I am not clever, you know, and what 
would be a temptation to others I might scarcely 


Sweet ConnseL 


93 


feel. You may be higher in His school, and have to 
learn different lessons from those I am taught. As 
this difference of gift and character fits each for his 
or her place in the church below, so I love to think 
it will be in the church above. It will not be like a 
garden all planted with roses or lilies, but there will 
be different flowers as well as colors.” 

Here Mr. Archer met and joined them, and, after 
a short interruption, the former subject of conversa- 
tion was resumed. 

“ Is not our distinctive character the effect, or, 
rather, sad result of circumstances ? ” Winifred 
asked. 

“ Undoubtedly, in part,” Mr. Archer replied ; “ but 
remember, circumstances are God’s opportunities 
for putting into practice what we have learned in our 
lesson-book — His Word. Experience is .the lesson 
^oX. by heart. Mary, who sat at Jesus’s feet, prob- 
ably had naturally a contemplative disposition, 
which circumstances favored, while Martha found in 
the presence of her divine Master an occasion for 
her busy energies. It was not Peter’s impulsive 
character grace altered, it was the self-confidence 
which grew out of it like an ugly excrescence on a 
noble tree. The gentle, loving John, happily rest- 
ing on his Lord’s bosom, became in Patmos the 
mighty seer before whom, while he was quiescent, 
passed the wondrous visions of the Revelation.” 

Winifred thought over this afterward. Like all 
active people, she had very little sympathy with 
want of energy — made little allowance for it, in short, 
save as a result of physical weakness. Now, how- 


94 


^'Marvelous in Onr Eyes." 

ever, she began to feel a sympathy with, almost an 
admiration for, the quiet contemplative disposition 
which succeeded to the partial animation, of which 
we have spoken, in her friend Ethel Ruthin. It was 
as different as grace from nature, from her former 
selfish indolence ; yet grace and nature combined to 
produce it. 

A voice was now heard coming up the glen croon- 
ing rather than singing a verse or two of a simple 
hymn. 

“Who is teaching Danny?” he asked, smiling. 
“ Is he to be a Protestant in more than name ? ” 

Winifred looked for an explanation. 

“You are sending him on his way through these 
rocks and dells — a witness for Christ,” he replied. 
“Think of how many travelers these strains may 
reach who would not otherwise receive the burden of 
his song.” 

“ You make too much of my simple effort. I dare 
not look for such grand results.” 

“ ‘ Open thy mouth wide, and I will fill it,'” he 
rejoined. “ We shall not fail to ask God's blessing 
on the simplest work we undertake for Him.” 

Winifred was silent, and he went on — 

“Nothing is small ; it is not singly and alone we 
can view any work, or isolate events. Each hinges 
one upon another, each opens one out of another, 
each acts one with the other to bring about God's 
purposes in providence and grace. Light and shade, 
time and space, effort and effect, are the warp and 
woof with which the great Author and Finisher of 
our being, as of our faith, carries out His designs. 


Sweet Counsel. 


95 


Little services done for His name’s sake, like tiny 
bits of mosaic, insignificant in themselves, yet tinged 
with celestial light, are fitted into their place by a 
Master hand, and combine to produce a marvelous 
result. I weary you ?” he added, inquiringly. 

“No,” said Winifred, “you have made me think.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


FADING AND DEATHLESS. 

Have you ever nursed a flickering light which 
seemed ready to die out at any moment, and, as it 
received something especially invigorating as fresh 
food, and a new direction, seen it spring up into 
sudden warmth and strength and beauty, to be all 
the more quickly extinguished ? The momentary 
impetus seems only to have exhausted its failing 
powers, which less taxed might have lasted longer, 
and quickly it is gone. Have you ever taken a bird 
from a gloomy prison and hung it up in the warm 
sunshine, where it sang its little life away? Have 
you ever turned aside the course of a stream, and 
found that it had dried up when you expected it to 
flow more freely? Have you ever transferred a del- 
icate plant from one of nature’s dells to a well- 
trimmed garden, and seen it wither in the clearer 
soil ? So with all fair and changeful things. So 
with the life of the beautiful and cherished Ethel 
Ruthin. Could that be renewed in its grace and 
power ? or was it to be all the more quickly extin- 
guished for the happy influence and impetus it had 
received ? Was it soon to be lost in the dark 


Fading and Deathless. 97 

shadow of the grave? and was death, with its icy 
finger, beckoning her away from earth ? 

“ Youth and the opening rose 

May seem like things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee; but thou art not of those 

Who wait for ripened bloom to seize their prey.” 

A cloud, scarcely a coldness, had arisen between 
Ethel and Winifred. To the latter it did not assume 
a tangible form ; nevertheless its chilling influence 
was felt. It is sad when paths which have long lain 
in the same direction are divided ; when those who 
have climbed “ the sunny slopes and breezy heights ” 
of life together, are separated by circumstances. 
Sadder still is the alienation of the heart ; but sad- 
dest of all is when division or dissension arises 
between two who are linked in one heavenly bond, 
and who have eternity to pass together in their 
Father’s house above. Ah me ! as with the worldling 
even so with the Christian ; a word, a look is some- 
times enough to cause a breach which ruder words, 
or sullen restraint, or proud indifference but serves to 
widen. There is but one remedy for this also. The 
poet has said — 

“ Then draw we nearer day by day. 

Each to his brethren, all to God.” 

Perhaps it might better be, “ Each to his God, 
brother to brother ”, “ In Thy light shall we see 

light.” In the light of love we shall trace excel, 
lence in those from whom we have been for some 
time estranged, to win our hearts once more; while 
envy would only detect the black spots. In the 
realized preciousness of the love of Christ all icy 


"^Marvelous in Our Eyes'' 


9 « 

barriers between brethren thaw, and heart meets 
heart in glad response and full communion again. 

The sunlight was glinting over the water, the 
wavelets dancing in gentle measured motion beneath 
its influence as though there were music as well as 
gladness in its beams. All nature looked fresh and 
fair, and Ethel and Winifred, each imagining she 
had left a secret trouble at “ the throne of grace ”, 
yet each, as so many pilgrims, old and young, are 
wont to do, with strange inconsistency taking up the 
burden once more and nursing their discontent, sat 
listening to the lullaby which might well soothe to 
rest every impatient feeling. Quietly, almost in a 
whisper, Ethel spoke at last, looking away from her 
friend, so that her face could not be seen. 

“Winifred, he loves me.” 

No need to name him ; there was but one to whom 
the pronoun could refer. 

“I knew it,” returned Winifred, gladly. 

Ethel turned, and looked full into her companion’s 
face. 

“I have often thought he was more fitted for you,” 
she said doubtfully. 

“ He does not think so himself,” was Winifred’s 
ready reply. But though she gave it with a laugh, 
her cheek was flushed. 

Yet there was not a shade of regret, not the least 
evidence of disappointment in the steady, cheerful 
tones. One more suggestion Ethel’s vain, foolish, 
unsatisfied woman’s heart would throw out ere it was 
quieted. 

“ He might one day have thought so,” 


Fading and Deathless. 


99 


“ Not likely,” exclaimed Winifred, with a pretty, 
willful air, which she seldom assumed, but which 
became her well. 

Who could have guessed that a feeling such as 
Frank Ruthin had never awakened, was crushed 
down into her heart? It would not be banished 
with the echo of that light laugh. No, it must not 
stir, or assert itself. “ Hers was to be a lonely 
path,” Winifred had often said to herself ; “the her- 
itage of woe ” indeed. But she was strong; yes, she 
was strong. 

And so the estrangement was at an end, and the 
cloud passed away from between the friends and 
from Ethel’s heart, and before her brightened a fair 
future. Winifred, too, now knew what it had been. 
Each thought she read the other aright. Ah! what, 
or whom do we read aright ? A face may smile while 
a spirit is heavy, and a laugh ring out while the 
heart is moaning. Over the troubled wave outside 
the sheltered bay, and over the grave of buried love, 
the sunshine streamed that day ; but were the bil- 
lows smoothed to glass by the brightness, or were 
the graves less there because of their surface 
gilding ? 

“ Winifred dear,” sighed Ethel, in such a tone of 
contentment it seemed like the cooing of a young 
dove, “ I once thought you and Frank cared for each 
other.” 

“ We may have done so a little once ; it was my 
first fancy, but would not answer now. It is best as 
it is.” 

“ I hope he won’t break his heart,” 


lOO “ Marvelous in Our Eye si’ 

Winifred answered by humming — 

“ We mend broken china, torn lace we repair ; 

But we sell broken hearts cheap in Vanity Fair.” 

“ Don’t be satrical, Winifred,” laughed Ethel ; “it 
is a great thing to win love.” 

“A good man’s love.” 

Directly she said this, Winifred regretted it. She 
cast a reflection thereby on her friend’s brother. 
Ethel, however, too happy in her own reflections, did 
not notice it, but went on, softly : 

“ God make me worthy of it ! Winifred, I knew 
Horace loved me for a long time. ' I read it, you 
know, as I think every woman can ; but still, I 
longed to hear it. It is so sweet to receive the 
assurance of what one most desires. He was a long 
time without declaring it in words, for he feared 
agitating me ; and, perhaps, his anxiety magnified 
my illness, and made him think me more delicate 
than I really am. Only last night all that he had 
been trying to suppress came out — I can not tell 
how. Oh, I am so happy ! ” 

And for excess of joy, Ethel covered her face and 
wept. 

“ I don’t know why he cared for me,” she whis- 
pered. “ How can I ever keep his great love ? ” 

Winifred said what first occurred to her : 

“ Ethel, darling, you know you are fair.” 

“ But beauty will fade.” 

“ Ay ; but your love is based on what is death- 
less.” 

How was it that two words lingered in the minds 
of each in the pause that ensued? Two strange 


Fading and Deathless. loi 

trains of thought were awakened. They were “ fad- 
ing ” and “ deathless Even as they seemed to be 
sounded in their ears, a voice was heard from the 
brow of the cliff singing the sad refrain to which we 
have before listened — 

“ Beneath the cliffs a flower grew; 

None so daring, none so daring 
As to pluck that flower blue — 

None so daring. 

But the wild winds whistled nigh, 

But the wild spray dashed on high. 

Came to see the flower die ; 

Were they daring ? ” 

“I do not like that song,” said Ethel with a shiver. 
“ Do you believe in presentiments, Winifred ?” 

“I do,” returned Winifred, evasively; “I have a 
presentiment of a very happy future for you.” 

Ethel gave her friend a grateful look, and, taking 
her arm, turned her steps homeward, seeking the 
easiest ascent. Her heart was too full for speech 
just then, though hope had revived. 

But the light was failing, but the bird had well- 
nigh sung its last, but the stream of life was drying 
up, but the rose was fading. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


FOREVER. 

'‘It is a foolish love-affair,” soliloquized Miss 
Archer, “a very foolish affair. I thought Horace 
had more sense. The girl is certainly pretty enough 
for any one ; no one can help loving her, for the 
matter of that ; but there is a difference between 
love and love — between love and marriage. What 
does a clergyman want with a sickly wife? How can 
he be without carefulness. I’d like to know, when a 
dear lovely creature is lying on her sofa not able to 
make a pudding, or sew a button on a shirt ? He 
will have to nurse her, humor her sick fancies, incul- 
cate patience, and even direct her thoughts aright; 
and that not in a short clerical visit now and then, 
but as an everyday duty. Dear me ! as if the cares 
of a parish were not enough to bear! Clergymen 
and doctors are a sort of common property, and 
expected to be receptacles of their people’s or 
patients’ woes. Well, I was foolish not to have 
guarded in some way against this. I might at least 
have suggested that her delicacy of course precluded 
her from being the wife of an earnest man, whose 
duties carried him from home ; but I thought all his 
care was for her soul’s interests. Ah dear ! there’s 
no trusting even the best of rqen ; and Horace cer- 
tainly is the best.” 


Forever, 


103 

And witlrthis conclusion in walked the Reverend 
Horace. 

Miss Archer began the attack at once. 

“ Horace, I am going to lecture you.” 

“ For what, my dear Jane? ” 

“You have acted imprudently.” 

“ How, my dear Jane ?” 

“ Now, Horace, like a good, good brother, be grave. 
You have fallen in love.” 

“ A grave matter, indeed ! Did you think I was 
more than mortal ? ” 

“ I thought you were a sensible man.” 

“And I have proved I am not?” 

“ I did not exactly say that ; but, Horace, is it 
well for a clergyman, of all persons on earth, to 
marry a delicate girl ? A doctor might choose, for 
he might be able to cure her; but can she be a help- 
meet for you ? ” 

Mr. Archer was grave enough now. 

“My dear sister, Ethel is manifestly gaining 
strength every day. I never saw any one who rallied 
so quickly, or whose health improved as hers has 
done. I trust she may soon be as active and useful 
as even you could wish.” 

Miss Archer was silent. Her attack had failed, 
but, like a wise woman, she held her peace, though 
still, as it were, standing her ground. 

“Don’t you think so?” her brother asked, 
abruptly, having waited in vain for a reply. 

“ I hope so,” was the rejoinder, more truthful than 
satisfactory. 


104 


'^Marvelous in Onr Eyes^ 


He ventured no more ; perhaps he had an instinct- 
ive dread of drawing forth her real opinion. 

“ It is too late for regrets,” he said, “ and, pardon 
me, dear sister, they are out' of place. I believe I 
have acted rightly before God ; at all events, I tried 
to be true to Him in being true to her and to 
myself.” 

Miss Archer was effectually silenced, and, if 
unconvinced, seeing advice was unavailing, rather 
regretted having spoken. As if to draw off the con- 
versation without exactly turning it off, Mr. Archer 
asked : 

“ Now, tell me what you think are necessary 
qualifications fora minister’s wife? ” 

Miss Archer mused for awhile, and rejoined : 

“ First — and most essential — she should be ‘ spir- . 
itually-minded, which is joy and peace,’ able gently 
to lead others to the Saviour ; secondly, she should 
have robust health ; thirdly, a tender woman’s heart 
and quick sympathy.; fourthly, an active, energetic 
spirit ; fifthly, a quiet mind.” 

“ Stay,” exclaimed her brother; “is there not a 
contradiction here? — say, ‘manner’.” 

“ No,” returned Miss Archer, “ mind ; I was com- 
ing to the manner.” 

Mr. Archer gave a quick nod of comprehension 
and assent. His sister read his approval. 

******** 

Mr. Archer and Ethel sat by the sounding sea, the 
murmur of their voices blending with nature’s mon- 
otone. 

“ Horace,” whispered Ethel, half like a frightened 


Forever. 


105 


child, afraid of the sound of her own voice, “is not 
life with love most blessed ? ” 

“ In the highest sense, my dearest, yes. 

“You mean love in Christ. 

“I do; all other is poor in comparison. Ours is 

forever.” . , , 1 

There was a power and joy in the last words. 

Yes, she was his beyond the possibility of separa- 
tion. . . i. . 

“ Horace ’’—Ethel, with her childish timidity, had 

all a woman’s pride in being able to use the name so 
freely— “ I often wonder whether you would have 
loved me if — if — ” 

“ If God had not made you His own, you mean, l 
do not think I should.” 

For a moment she looked disappointed. Perhaps 
it was not in nature to indulge the thought Uiat in 
herself she was not an object for his love. She had 
been so petted and admired that, without any 
unusual degree of vanity, she had an assurance of the 
power of her beauty, which only grace could soften 
or subdue. 

He lifted the clouded face. 

“ I would have resisted the influence of all natural 
gift and charm,” he said, with a smile. “I did so. 
Only when I felt that a union would not be impos- 
sible I allowed myself to love you.” 

“ Your feelings are well under control ; I am afraid 

‘^Not under my control,” he replied, with a smile. 
“ Do not be afraid of me, but place yours* under the 
same restraint. 


io6 Marvelous in Our Eyes." 

“And that is? ” 

“The ruling of our Father in heaven. But for 
His control, our feelings would run away with us 
like wild horses, and our judgment be lost in vain 
desire.” 

“ Do you think God takes the control or oversight 
of every thing belonging to us — even to the ruling of 
our secret thoughts ? ” 

“ I believe ‘ the sailing of a cloud hath Provi- 
dence to its pilot ’, and the awakening of a holy desire 
or heavenly affection must come of grace. Are we 
not taught to pray, ‘ Cleanse the thoughts of our 
hearts by the inspiration of Thy Holy Spirit ’ ” ? 

“ It is a blessed faith — a blessed faith, to trust in 
wise ordering and loving guiding,” sighed the girl 
“ it rests one so much.” 

“ I thought you scarcely valued — that is, longed 
for rest.” 

“ I do long for it now, more everyday : for, some- 
how, the old sense of weariness has not quite passed 
away.” 

He looked at her anxiously, but with a sidelong 
gaze, which he did not wish her to perceive. 

“ Horace, if God had not revealed His Son to me, 
would our union have indeed been impossible? ” she 
questioned again. 

“ No, not impossible ; sin is too easy,” he returned, 
gravely. 

“ Oh, you surely would not call it sin ? — that is 
going too far ! ” she exclaimed, for the first time in 
their acquaintance a shade of real displeasure crossing 
her fair face. 


Forever. 


107 

His only reply was to draw forth his pocket Tes- 
tament, and read — 

“ ‘ Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbe- 
lievers ; for what fellowship hath righteousness with 
unrighteousness, and what communion hath light 
with darkness? ’ Only in the Lord, is the rule.” 

Ethel was silent, but she began to perceive that 
her companion had one rule of life as of faith, and 
this was his Father’s will. She was a little afraid of 
him, as she had said, and yet never respected or 
admired him as much as she did now when, by his 
own acknowledgment, she would have been in her- 
self far off from him, and deemed — no, not unworthy, 
but not within reach of his love. She felt how 
blessed it is to have some one to lean upon who is 
upheld by an Arm which can not fail, -and strength- 
ened with a strength which is more than human. 

Ah, without this, earthly affection is but “a broken 
reed ”, too often piercing the hand that trustingly 
leans upon it. 

But Ethel Ruthin's and Mr. Archer’s were not 
without this, and as he folded his arms around her. 
he whispered — 

“ Mine ; my own forever! 


CHAPTER XIV. 


GOING DOWN. 

Beneath the treacherous deep fair barks had gone 
down. Perhaps the warm sun had smiled upon them, 
glad and bright, as they started on their seaward 
course full of promise, and “ the waves came around 
them with murmur and song”. Who could tell that 
ruin and desolation were in that course? Who felt 
that a mighty struggle or a terrible death awaited 
them ? Ah, me ! there are wrecks indeed, as solemn 
on land as by sea, and to a wide pit of ruin, the 
darkness of a wasted life and hopeless eternity, souls 
and bodies of men and women are going down. 

And from a low alehouse, a miserable locality 
where were fish-wives and their mates, bronzed sailors 
from all ports, with the dishonoring habits of every 
clime upon them, Frank Ruthin, who for some unex- 
plained reason had returned to Cliffcoole, the so- 
called gentleman, was also going down. 

One vile passion enslaved him. He ever loved the 
wine-cup, and sat long at his father’s plentiful 
board ; but an affection for a pure and noblewoman, 
more than any thing else, led him to curb his tastes, 
and hindered its indulgence. When he came to 
Cliffcoole he had once been overcome by it at a con- 
vivial party, but he had sense enough left to keep his 
own room for several hours rather than appear in Miss 


Going Doivn. 109 

Lome’s presence. He then sought the evil locality 
we have mentioned, in order to secure aid for a mis- 
erable raid on one who had offended him, and, of 
course, had his mistaken liberality commended, his 
exploits extolled. How far he must have sunk 
when, with his natural gifts and refinement, he could 
take pleasuredn the flattery of the low herd who 
were all animal ! 

The only heroism their minds could conceive was 
a sort of rugged endurance and daring, incidental to 
their condition. Frank Ruthin had the elements of 
the latter in him, and thus became the object of 
their admiration; and he was willing to spend an 
hour or two in their company, gradually gaining an 
ascendency over them, of which he was to take 
advantage by and by. Yes, in more ways than one, 
Master Frank was going down. 

He was seldom now with the young ladies ; indeed, 
since the days of the rencontre on the shore, he 
kept aloof from their society as much as possible. 
To Winifred this was a relief, and yet she felt sorry 
to remark t^at he was evidently changed for the 
worse. Invariably gloomy and sullen, he only spoke 
to his sisters to cavil and complain ; and, disagree- 
able as his satire had ever been, his sneer was now 
almost diabolical. Scarcely with the invalid Ethel 
was his ill-humor restrained, and only Mr. Archers 
constant presence proved her protection. But Miss 
Lome and Louie had now seen him return home evi- 
dently intoxicated, and felt that, had not Miss Free- 
man formed one of their party, they should have 
shortened their stay at Cliffcoole. 


lio '' Marvelous in Our Eyes'" 

It was a dark still night. Mr. Archer had been 
visiting a family at the very outskirts of his parish, 
far seaward from Cliffcoole. Another visitor had 
also been there ; and though the doors were closed, 
and though the place was lonely, the angel of death, 
which enters unbidden into the most crowded haunts 
as well as isolated homes, had called thence the head 
and bread-winner of the family. He was a chief 
officer of the coastguards, being carried off by rapid 
decline; and the minister of God sat patiently beside 
his bed, holding the wasted hand in his, as he told of 
a Saviour’s love. 

“ Ah ! but my life! ” groaned the dying man, as 
memory tided him back over long years of selfseek- 
ing, without one thought of “ the God who rules on 
high”, whose wonders met him ever on the face of 
the deep, and whose great mercy in the gift of His 
Son was revealed in the Word. 

“The death of Christ atones,” was the earnest 
answer. “ ‘ The blood of Jesus Christ, God’s Son, 
cleanseth us from all sin.’ ” 

“All! Did you say all?" was the faint but 
eager rejoinder. 

“ God says ‘ from all'." 

“ Then, let them go in a big lump — in one black 
heap,” was the last gasp, broken by a sob of true 
repentance. 

“ At evening-time it shall be light,” thought the 
clergyman ; and when, some hours afterward (hav- 
ing stayed with the bereaved family as long as he 
could, breathing words of holy comfort), he walked 
slowly home, these words kept ringing in his ears like 


Going Down. 


Ill 


a solemn yet happy chime. His road lay on the 
side of a steep incline and mere pathway, where a 
stumble might be dangerous; but he knew it well, 
and trod it quietly and fearlessly. He had some 
miles to go along a narrow channel into which the 
tide ran. It was now out, and abroad border of mud 
and seaweed was fast disappearing, while a dark object 
stood up glooming in the midst. It was a cluster of 
huge stones or bowlders, forming a rocky islet, where 
the sea-birds nestled and multiplied, in spite of the 
raids of the boys of the neighborhood. He gazed 
out into the gloom. In the uncertain light, all was 
bare and uninteresting, but his heart was glad. A 
soul had gone safely home to God ; and, oh, joy ! 
what he most coveted had been given to him — it had 
been led homeward by his hand. 

As he advanced beyond the mud-line and reached 
the shingles once more, a low and prolonged whistle 
met his ears. There was nothing in the sound to 
alarm, and yet it at once arrested his attention, and, 
he could scarcely tell why, he instinctively drew back. 
At the other side of the path was a gradual slope 
covered with gorse and low brushwood. Upon this 
he threw himself, awaiting a repetition of the sound. 

P'ive — ten minutes passed! He gazed up at the 
solemn sky with its dark veil covering the brilliant 
stars until they shone through one by one, and then 
between him and the horizon, where was a rising 
light heralding the moon’s approach, was distinguish- 
able a man’s figure. A light, active figure ; he knew 
it in an instant ; he had seen it too often to be mis- 
taken. 


1 12 


“ Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


The figure walked past him, peering inic- the 
gloom of the gorse ; but the clerical habiliments 
blended too well with its shade for the minister to be 
discovered. 

Then the low whistle was heard again, and beside 
the light figure stood another of stouter build. 

“ I thought I heard a step,” said the first man ; “ but 
it can only have been the breeze getting up. Is all 
right below ? ” 

“ Ay, all right,” replied the second. “ I wish the 
moon would get up.” 

“ Better for us it did not,” was the low response. 

As he spoke, an involuntary movement betrayed 
the listener. In an instant a strong hand seized him 
in his hiding-place. Mr. Archer rose to his feet, and 
grasped the arm of the younger and slighter man. 

“ I know you,” he said, in his usual full distinct 
tones. “ This is dangerous ; it is worse, dishonor 
and death.” 

For a minute or two Frank Ruthin (for he it was) 
writhed in the clergyman’s grasp, while the stout 
seaman clapped his hand on his belt in a significant 
manner, but was restrained by a motion from his 
companion. 

“ Mr. Archer,” exclaimed Frank, at last recovering 
some measure of composure, and resolving to try the 
effect of deceit, “how dare you insult a gentle- 
man, and seize me like a criminal ? You fancy your 
cloth will protect you — but beware ; ‘ there are 
bounds to human endurance ’.” 

He had calculated on the timidity or credulity of 
his listener, and so began by assuming a bullying 


Going Doivn. 


113 

air, which he meant to follow up with a tissue of 
falsehood, if necessary. He miscalculated the char- 
acter of the man with whom he had to deal. 

“ A gentleman would not be found in league with 
smugglers,” was Mr. Archer’s calm reply, “which I 
more than suspect is the case with you. I do not 
trust to my cloth for protection, sir; my life is in 
higher keeping.” 

“ Smugglers ! ’■ echoed Frank, with an awkward 
laugh. “ What put such an absurd idea into your 
head, man ? Now your insult is explained, or, rather, 
trebled. Why, I was only buying a boat.” 

“ At this hour of the night ! ” echoed Mr. Archer, 
incredulously. “ Frank, for your own sake, for your 
unprotected sisters’ sake, come with me, and, if it be 
in the power of man, I will get you free from this 
shameful connection. Let your share in it go, and 
more along with it. Retreat while it is possible : 
loss will be by continuance in, not in separation from, 
this unlawful busines, which you have probably 
joined in only for its risk and novelty. Leave it, and 
I will never betray you ; remain in it, and I can not 
shield you. And for you, my man,” he continued, 
turning to the sailor who had stood impatiently by 
during the somewhat lengthy speech, “ believe me, 
the honestest course is the happiest, and ill-gotten 
gains can never do us good.” 

Frank Ruthin wavered, but not for long. It was 
his last chance of reclamation, and he cast it willfully 
away. The next moment Mr. Archer felt his arms 
suddenly seized on either side, and wrung violently 
back, where they were confined so tightly by a cord 


"^Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


ri4 

as almost to cut the flesh. He was thus completely 
at their mercy, but, even had he not been, would 
probably have offered no resistance. He did not fear 
for his life ; apart from a calm trust in the safe 
keeping of his heavenly Father, he did not believe 
either of the men would seriously injure him. 
Desirous to see the affair out, he was desperately 
anxious, if possible, to rescue the misguided young 
man at his side. 

Many things were now explained — Frank’s uncer- 
tain manner, and frequent ab.sence from home. The 
vicar had no previous suspicion to what depths of 
evil the rash youth had descended, Jput remembered, 
with no little satisfaction, his having withdrawn his 
brother Charlie as far as possible from all baleful 
companionship. He was aroused by a mocking 
voice from his brief reverie. 

‘‘Now,” laughed Frank Ruthin, “we can pay )’ou 
off. Swear, by all you hold sacred, that you will 
not betray us, or ever hint at what you have charged 
us with here.” 

The hand of the would-be gentleman held a cocked 
pistol at the clergyman’s head. It never trembled in 
the evil deed, but neither did the brave heart of the 
man of peace tremble. His tones were calm and 
steady as he replied — 

“ 1 will not.” 

“ Come, come,” put in the hard voice of the smug- 
gler, who had stood silently by until now, “ we’re 
wasting time, and a shot would ruin us all. Let us 
take him to Old Mother Hubbard’s, and leave him 
there,” 


Going Down. 


IIS' 

Without a word, a hand was slipped through each 
of Mr. Archer’s arms, and he was led down a steep 
zig-zag path to the water’s edge. Here they were 
joined by another man, who, at a sign from Frank 
Ruthin, took his place, while the latter, having 
unmoored a boat which lay near, jumped into it and 
pushed off from the shore. For a short distance the 
trio proceeded in silence, then, suddenly slipping 
behind a bowlder at the foot of a giant rock, from 
which it seemed to have been detached by some con- 
vulsion of nature, the men took a sharp turning, and 
Mr. Archer found himself immediately under shelter. 
Here one of his guides struck alight from the tinder- 
box in his pocket, and, having kindled the flame of a 
small lantern that hung at his side, Mr. Archer began 
at once, by its faint glimmer, to reconnoiter what 
was evidently intended as his place of confine- 
ment. 

It was a long, low cavern, dripping with water, the 
floor and sides wet, showing that the tide gained 
full access into it. It Avidened as they proceeded, 
and seemed to branch off into many subterranean 
passages. ToAvard one of these Mr. Archer Avas 
noAv led, the first smuggler cursing and complaining 
all the Avay at the trouble Avhich his unexpected 
charge had given him. 

“ My friend,” said the clergyman, solemnly, “ do 
you knoAv that He upon Avhom you call has come in 
here ? ” 

The man turned fiercely toward him. 

“ Hold your Avhist,” he retorted, “or I Avill make 
you.” 


Ii6 


“ Marvelous in Our Eyes.'" 


“Say to yourself as I now say in danger — ‘Thou 
God seest me’ was the calm reply. 

The only answer was a curse so awful that the 
clergyman shuddered, and regretted having spoken, 
while some words from an old-fashioned Book from 
which he ever took his life-lessons, about “ casting 
your pearls before swine ”, rose in his mind. The 
next moment a violent push from the smuggler’s 
heavy hand (the man’s passion having blazed beyond 
self-control) laid him senseless on the wet shingles. 


CHAPTER XV. 


IN THE CAVE. 

When Mr. Archer came to himself, he lay alone in 
silence and darkness. Not at once did he recover 
consciousness, and only bit by bit, in strange dis- 
jointed patches, did the events of the last few hours 
occur to him. His head swam round, his mind was 
bewildered ; he seemed to be thinking and breathing 
in a dream, and even began to doubt his identity. 
He felt as though absent from the body, and in some 
way looking down with a sort of wondering' pity and 
amaze on the poor creature who lay on the ground, 
and whose plight he could not fully understand. It 
may be even so that freed spirits look down on the 
houses of clay which they have quitted, and which 
lie in the dust of death, yet having in them the 
elements of life. Then, as with a sudden flash, 
memory regained its dominion, and he knew what 
had happened, and how he came there. 

As far as he could judge, he was the only occu- 
pant of the cave, for no breath came to his ear, or 
sigh of human voice to tell another shared his lone 
retreat. All was stillness. ^ 

And darkness, “darkness which might be felt.” 
Cold, profound, hopeless darkness. 

He moved his limbs to test alike his identity and 
freedom, At least he was at liberty to stir ; and, 


ii8 Marvelous in Our Eyes." 

wonder ! his arms were not tied. The smugglers 
had loosed his bands before quitting the cavern. He 
looked upward to the roof of his rocky prison in 
thankfulness to the God who had spared his life, 
and doubtless influenced them to leave him, so far, 
some hope of escape. As he did so he sighed invol- 
untarily to think of the blue sky and pure fresh air 
without. 

But he must bestir himself ; he must reflect, 
examine, and grope his way out of this dismal place 
as best he might. It was a difficult task in the dark, 
for he might take a wrong direction ; but it must be 
attempted. 

Hush ! What was that? A strange sobbing and 
gurgling, not human, but the sound of rising water. 

The tide was coming in ; advancing upon him like 
a subtle but irresistible enemy. How far might it 
come? Was there a possibility of retreating before 
it to a safe place where he could pass some hours 
until it took its usual turn and rolled back again to 
its former boundary ? or could he wade through it 
now to open air and freedom ? 

As the latter thought seized him he crept along to 
what he judged to be the mouth of the cave, but, 
like one who rises at night dizzy with sleep, and 
can not find his bed again, he had not the faintest 
idea of his true position, and found after a few paces 
that he was actually retreating from the water instead 
of advancing to meet it. Step by step he backed 
toward his former position, and then stood once 
more to deliberate. 

He was a brave man and a Christian, but he 


Going Down^ 


119 

shrank for one moment from the idea of death in 
that out-of-the-way dismal hole, with no eye to pity 
him, no hand outstretched to save ; perhaps even 
where his lifeless body might not be discovered. He 
felt what Shakespeare has so finely described by one 
who met the fury of the storm, “ A thousand fur- 
longs of sea for an acre of barren ground ! Let me 
die a dry death ! ” Would his sister, brother, and 
Ethel ever learn what his fate had been ? Ethel, 
she would never know that he had perished in seek- 
ing to warn and save her brother. Better — far better 
— she should not. 

But he was not alone ; oh, weak and faithless heart 
to feel so ! Did not martyrs of Jesus suffer for His 
name’s sake “ in dens and caves of the earth ” before 
now ? and was not their God his God, their Saviour 
his Saviour, though not for the confession of that 
name had this wrong been done him ? And yet it 
may have been ; he remembered his stern words to 
the smuggler — words which provoked the lawless 
man to violence — and felt more glad than sorry now 
for having spoken them. 

As he thus thought, his spirit grew calm and strong, 
and there came to his feet the dark water creeping 
on. As it washed around them it seemed to him the 
very flood of death, and he looked upward again 
and smiled. 

Upward to. heaven, upward to God, to the 
mansions of the blest, to the great company of the 
blood-bought with the Lord who redeemed them. 
His father (an aged minister, whose gray hairs were 
a crown of glory) and his mother were there. He 


120 


'•'■Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


dwelt long on the thought of the latter, until her 
mild face appeared to be shining like a glory in the 
gloom. 

Then he retreated quietly and steadily ; as the 
water gained upon him, he gave way before this 
awful unseen foe. 

How long it was he knew not. It might have 
been hours, but they dragged so slowly on — this 
advancing and retreating, this stealthy raid and secret 
withdrawal came to an end. He stood for a few 
minutes motionless ; the tide had reached its limit. 

Then but a few paces further, and, wearied by the 
automaton motion so long kept up, as well as by the 
previous excitement, he cast himself upon the ground, 
to wait for the morning — for the going out of the tide. 

Six hours it might be ere he could make a further 
effort. He did not feel hunger, though not having 
tasted food for some hours previously, but very, very 
cold. 

But soon this sensation was lost. In six sleepless 
hours, without any external object to draw off the 
attention, the mind could not fail to be turned in 
upon itself — that wondrous principle which makes 
“a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven”. What could 
he do but “ commune with his own heart ” ? As the 
gay and thoughtless Frank Ruthin had done, so did 
the sober-minded'pastor — he faced himself. 

He “thought of the bygone desert land” — he 
reviewed his life. Can the holiest man on earth, the 
most devoted to God’s service, do so and not find 
every page blotted in the open volume? Not one. 
Mr. Archer saw the failures and short-comings, as 


Going Down. 


I2I 


well as dire stains of his, pass in dread array before 
him; but he saw too, what Frank Ruthin did not 
see, the hand of mercy stretched over it all, and 
blotting it out forever, so that the black catalogue 
could not be charged against him. 

“ There is no condemnation to them who are in 
Christ Jesus.” He looked up in full assurance to 
his reconciled Father in heaven, and felt the “ Brother 
born for adversity ” stood beside him in his hour of 
need. A revelation of His love, such as he never 
before had known, filled his heart with gladness. 
He seemed to hear “ unspeakable words”, and have 
a vision of glory, which rendered him insensible to 
the miserable surroundings. 

Long afterward Mr. Archer recalled the expe- 
rience of that night, and many a time prayed that, 
when death did indeed draw nigh, he might be found 
calmly triumphant as then. He understood thence- 
forth how the martyrs rose superior to all bodily 
suffering, and even in death gained a victory. 

Despite the failures and mistakes in life which he 
saw clearly in the light of God’s presence, and 
deplored, he was thus serene. Some had been com- 
mitted as a man only; more as a minister. The first 
should have been merged to a greater extent in the 
latter — the natural impulses of his heart subdued. 
Had it always been so? Always — always had he 
first sought the glory of God and the furtherance 
of the charge committed to his trust ? Here the 
poor imprisoned clergyman fidgeted and was uneasy, 
but he felt the pierced hand which held his tighten 
its clasp as he whispered : 


122 Alarvetous in Our Eyes'' 

“The desire of my soul is to 77/y name, and to 
the remembrance of Thee.” 

“ Hold Thou up my goings in Thy paths, that my 
footsteps slip not.” 

Then the cloud passed from his mind, and he 
could exclaim again — 

“When I fall, I shall arise ; when I sit in darkness, 
the Lord shall be a light unto me.” 

He prayed for Ethel — for Ethel in her young 
beauty, her delicacy and inactivity — his Ethel ; that 
if it was God’s will, she might be made strong, and 
useful, and good, and happy. He was not cold now ; 
his heart was very warm. Was not the blessing 
which afterward came to her, an answer to this 
earnest petition ? - 

“Out of the deep have I called upon Thee.” He 
remembered Jonah, and began to fancy his expe- 
rience in the darkness of his rocky fastness must be 
similar. Only he thanked God he could not think 
his imprisonment had come upon him as a punish- 
ment for an act of willful disobedience. Grace had 
kept him from this. 

“ There shall be no more sea.” Often these words 
had awakened a sort of regret, but now with the 
cruel water crawling in in its awful darkness upon him, 
he began to think of the broad ocean in its mighty 
unrest, and of the desolation and separation it caused. 
The sigh that echoed through the cavern might be 
the wail for the lost who slept beneath its depths. 
Yes, he thanked God that in the brighter world to 
which he was hastening there would be “ no more 
sea”. 


Going Down. 


123 


Then the sighing grew more, but the sobbing less ; 
the monotone of the wave was fainter, and he knew 
the water was going down. 

Almost with a moan, for he was conscious of phy- 
sical weakness now, he rose and followed it as it had 
followed him. There was a rush as of many little 
rills from hollows in the rocks on either side, and a 
continual splash. It would have been soothing at 
another time, delicious in another place, but here it 
was irritating in the extreme, and set every nerve 
quivering. 

No funeral march was slower than Mr. Archer’s 
weak tramp back to life. 

At length the outlet was reached ; thank God, it 
was reached ! Without waiting for the last wave 
to recede, he grasped the edge of a jagged rock 
beyond, and dragged himself forward. 

The keen morning air blew upon his face, the 
water swayed up and down around him, so that he 
could get no further. His body seemed to sway 
with the undulating tide ; he was sick and faint, and 
clung tightly with both hands and feet to his place 
of refuge, or he would have fallen, closing his eyes 
for a long time. 

When he opened them again, he was in compara- 
tive safety ; beneath him was a narrow strip of wet 
shingle, with a border of tawny foam like a light 
fringe around it. Soon he might descend ; but how ? 

At the very notion he turned sick again, but just 
at that juncture heard a voice above him crooning 
some words which he could not distinguish. The 
strange wild tones were unmistakable; he tried to 


124 


'■^Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


shout, to utter Danny’s name, but only a faint dis- 
cordant sound arose. Again he tried — the singing 
suddenly ceased ; perhaps Danny had not heard. As 
the last disappointing thought arose, strange mutter- 
ings reached his ear descending from above. 

“ Sure, it are nivir a bird, nor a whistle, nor a tune, 
nor spakin’. Maybe it’s him, after all.” 

“ Danny ! ” 

In another moment the liberated clergyman might 
quit his hold of rock and bowlder, for Danny’s long 
arms were around him, and Danny’s strong frame 
supporting his. 

As he was half led along, half lifted up the easiest 
path the poor lad’s ingenuity could devise, Mr. 
Archer offered but little explanation of the state in 
which he was found. 

“ He had got into the cave,” he said; “the 
water rushed in upon him, and he was forced to 
remain in his uncomfortable position until morn- 
ing.” 

Danny might be half-witted in other things, but 
he was too wholly-witted to receive this story 
unquestioningly. His quick instinct told him Mr. 
Archer would not have sought the refuge of the 
lonely cave at night for mere pleasure. Danny 
might have done so, but Danny was very different. 
He glanced furtively at the gentleman’s pallid face 
and disordered attire, and was troubled. Mr. Archer 
had lost his hat, and never missed it ; but more — far 
more, on his hair, the collar of his coat, and usually 
spotless shirt-front, were drops of blood ! 

Yes, he had received a severe wound in falling 


125 


Going Doiim. 

against a sharp piece of rock, but was still uncon- 
scious of it — still oblivious of the pain it must have 
caused. 

“ He has been hurted,” muttered Danny Connor 
to himself ; “ an’ who has done it ? There’s nivir a 
soul in the barony would hurt the parson, as I knows 
on ; but Danny will watch — Danny will see who’s 
out at night to scare the folks like this.” 

“ Danny,” said the minister, “ I will go first to 
your mother’s cabin. I must not frighten my sister, 
you know. I suppose she thinks I stayed at a 
friend’s house last night.” 

Even as he spoke his heart misgave him ; for he 
felt his sister would not have rested satisfied all 
night without a search being made. She knew he 
would have acquainted her, if possible, with his 
whereabouts and safety. This opinion was too 
quickly confirmed by his companion. 

“ ’Deed, she’s th rouble-minded enough already, 
yer honor. There’s yer brother a-tarin’ about the 
counthry like a madman, an’ she with a face as white 
as the little pool with the moon upon it, knockin’ at 
me door, an’ cryin’, ‘ Get up, Danny, an’ search 
everywhere.’ ” 

“And Miss Ethel?” asked the clergyman. 

“ Sleepin’ like a baby, sure,” was the low and 
almost reverent reply. 

Mr. Archer’s answer was a fervent “ Thank God ! ” 


. , CHAPTER XVI. 


BACK TO EARTH. 

Mrs. Connor asked no questions and manifested 
no curiosity. She simply helped her visitor to remove 
all traces of disorder, bathed his wound, etc., and 
induced him to lie down on an old settle near her 
cabin fire. He was in haste to reach home, and yet 
felt this delay was best. He had not lain there long, 
however, when light but hurried footsteps came to 
the door, and his sister’s white face appeared. Her 
arms were around him at once, and she quite lost 
self-possession, for the first time to his knowledge, 
as she sobbed — 

“ Oh, Horace ! Horace ! where have you been ? ” 

“We will talk of that again, dear. Here I am 
still in the body, needing your care.” 

Miss Archer saw the latter was too true, so, with- 
out another word, induced him to resume his position 
on the settle, while she sat beside him on a low stool, 
content only to hold his hand. Mr. Archer was 
greatly touched by this deep but quiet affection, 
and felt the blessing of a sister’s love. 

She had known of his visit to his distant parish- 
ioner, and, when it drew near midnight without his 
return, Charlie mounted his brother’s pony and 
rode off to make inquiries at the house of mourning. 


Back to Earth. 


127 


There he learned of the death, and of the clergy- 
man’s having left some hours previously. When he 
reached home again, the anxiety of both brother 
and sister at this novel proceeding led to the latter’s 
visit to Danny, and his consequent search. Whether 
the poor lad, after the manner of a minstrel of old 
with a captive king, had sought to carry out his pur- 
pose by means of one of his wild strains, we can 
not tell ; at all events, it proved, as we know, 
effectual. 

While Mr. Archer rested, but could not sleep, his 
sister and the poor widow conversed in a low tone, 
in a way which gladdened his heart. He learned 
what a treasure the Book he had given had proved 
to Danny and his mother. It was “as a light that 
shineth in a dark place ”, telling of a Saviour’s love. 
In this love they simply rejoiced. 

“ I've been very near death to-night,” the clergy- 
man said at last. “ I have been, as it were, in the 
gloom of the grave, and it was not terrible.” 

Mrs. Connor drew near to listen. 

“I now understand as I did not before that 
‘ dying grace is not given to living people he con- 
tinued. “ ‘ As thy days, so shall thy strength be.’ ” 

His sister understood this, but the Widow Connor 
did not, and ventured to remark — 

“ ’Deed, then, sir, if I may be bold to say it, I 
think death must be terrible to any one.” 

“To those who are safe .in Christ ? ” he asked. 

“ Ay, even to them. Though their sins may be 
forgiven, they feel they are sinners still, and it must 
be an awful thing to stand right in the sight of a 


128 


Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


holy God, with His eyes looking through and 
through you.” 

“Yes, it would indeed be awful if we stood before 
Him in our sinful selves; but sin has not only been 
pardoned, but put out of God’s sight forever by the 
atonement of His Son, and when we drop the poor 
old body we leave its principle and power, as well as 
guilt and shame, behind. Then, again, w^e stand in 
God’s presence in the righteousness — the positive 
merits of another ; so that we are ‘ perfect through 
His comeliness which is put upon us’.” 

“Yer reverence,” said the poor woman, “ I have 
asked God to forgive me on account of what His Son 
has done (here she made a low inclination), and not 
for any doin’s of my own ; and the good Book says, 

‘ Whosoever believeth on Him shall not perish ’. 
Many a time I says, ‘ Lord, make me believe ! 
Lord, I believe ! ’ an’ I do ; for what else makes me 
glad an’ sure like, when I reads them words ? But 
I have adhread of death still ; the Lord betune us 
and all harm ! An’ what if I don’t feel so sure at 
the end ? ” 

“Yes,” replied Mr. Archer, “death is an enemy, 
but Christ is a Victor. It is Christ we need in life 
and death. Do you think He forgives your sins 
here and keeps you by His power from day to day, 
to desert you at the last ? Would you wrong by this 
thought an earthly friend?” 

“God pardon me for misdoubting Him,” groaned 
the widow. “An’ He provin’ His love on thecross, 
an’ his care of us every day.” 

In that hour was the dread of death removed, and 


Back to Earth. 


129 


all her lifetime “ subject to bondage ”, her soul now 
found deliverance. When called a few years after- 
ward to pass through the dark valley, she found she 
had not to tread it alone, for there stood by her in 
the shadows a kingly Guest — the veiled form of the 
Master. From thenceforth she might sing with the 
other frightened soul in the beautiful lines — 
“ Through the flood on foot : ” 

“ The great and terrible land 

Of wilderness and drought 
Lies in the shadows behind me, 

But the Lord hath brought me out. 

The great and terrible river 

I stood that day to view 
Lies in the sliadows before me, 

But the Lord will bear me through,” 

Mr. Archer now hastened to get home, and sin- 
cere was his brother’s joy at his return. To use 
a common phrase, Charlie’s “ heart was in the right 
place ”, and though always thoughtless, and some- 
times a little wild, to give him his due, he honored 
and admired the vicar more than any other man on 
earth. His brother was Charlie’s Bible, and he sel- 
dom if ever read another. Day by day he scanned 
the life opened to its own discomfiture in the cave, 
and at least it told no sad tales to him. It was, 
indeed, “a. living epistle known and read of all men”. 
Charlie had almost come to the conclusion that his 
brother had no faults save in being “ righteous over- 
much that if he laid aside his religion sometimes 
like a warm cloak in the sunshine, taking it up again 
when the cold winds of adversity blew, or he needed 


130 


“ Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


it for exhortation or counsel, it would be better. 
Still, he respected the strict adherence to a principle.' 
Had he known that the pure and pious vicar of 
Cliffcoole found in the opened volume of his life 
(beside which, the younger brother’s w'as blotted 
and blurred as with mire) only matter for self-con- 
demnation, he would have regarded it as the mad- 
dest of mad ideas, and probably laughed heartily at 
its absurdity. 

Once outside the Widow Connor’s cabin, of course, 
Mr. Archer had to answer a host of questions. It 
seemed, in truth, the more he answered, the more 
he had to answer. He did not in any way implicate 
Frank Ruthin when telling of his encounter with the 
smugglers and detention in the cave. Little his 
auditors guessed that one who had free access to 
their society, on terms of intimacy, w'as among 
their dear brother’s assailants, and, therefore, to be 
accounted their enemy. Charlie burned with anx- 
iety to bring the perpetrators of the outrage to 
justice, and longed to take the whole law concerning 
them into his own hands at once, as detective, prose- 
cuting counsel, and judge. He was scarcely 
restrained from rushing off in a vain and idle pur- 
suit by his brother’s determined desire that he should 
not interfere with their counsels, or seek in anyway 
to discover their retreat. 

“ But you mean to search into the affair? ” ques- 
tioned Charlie. 

“ I do,” was the quiet answer. 

“And bring the villains to justice?” 

“ Or mercy,” returned Mr. Archer, with a smile. 


Back to Earth. 


131 


“ Perhaps justice would be mercy.” 

“ Quite so. I don’t doubt it.” 

Charlie looked at his brother and thought if he 
was good, at least he was peculiar — decidedly pecul- 
iar. 

“ Have you seen Ethel, or Miss Lome since ? ” he 
asked, turning to his sister. 

It seemed to him that such a long time had 
elapsed since he left home the two families must have 
met. It did not appear like one night. 

“No,” Miss Archer answered; “having ascer- 
tained from the servants that you were not there, it 
was not likely we should needlessly alarm them.” 

Mr. Archer was silent, but there was a great long- 
ing at his heart to know how it was with the family 
at Coolum Lodge, and to look upon the face of his 
betrothed once more. He would fain learn whether 
Frank had returned home, and when ? or if he was 
still absent, and how that absence was accounted for. 

He had been given back to earth, from the bot- 
toms of the mountains, from where the earth with 
her bars was about him ; he had been brought up from 
the pit and come back to his Ethel. Had she also 
in renewed health been given back to him, or could 
his strong love bind the weak one to earth ? 

Oh, human love, so strong, and yet so weak ! So 
strong to will, so powerless to attain ; so mighty in 
its inward tenderness, so unavailing in its flow. If 
but the mind to conceive, the arm of strength were 
given to it, what might it not accomplish ? As it is, 
we' may each prove, to our sad complaining, that 
earthly love is a broken reed, 


CHAPTER XVII. 


WAIT AND WORK. 

Whether “ absence quickens love into conscious- 
ness” or not, we know it quickens — or, rather, 
freshens — our observation. When Mr. Archer met 
Ethel next, it seemed to him a change had passed 
over her, and a change which he most dreaded to 
see. The hectic hue had faded somewhat from her 
cheek ; her eyes were heavy, while an increasing 
languor marked every movement. 

“ She had slept little the previous night,” she 
said, ” and felt weary all day.” 

He took her out with him into the warm sun- 
shine : but neither the song of birds, the glory of 
day, the sound of the water, nor the evidences of 
tenderness sufficed to brighten her into animation. 
Then they went back to the lodge, and she rested 
on her cushions once more, while he read aloud 
some selections at once grave and gay. As he 
looked at her, he felt strangely carried back to his 
musingsinthe lonely cave, and again a sense of 
failure and mistake oppressed his spirit. He crushed 
it down with a sigh, and the great love which had 
filled his heart and gladdened his life reigned, as 
before, above all disappointment, 


and Work. 133 

“You know, my dearest,” he said, “ that I go to 
town to-morrow to meet your father.” 

“ Yes,” she replied, “ I know it. I, too, have had 
a letter.” 

“ Your father has engagements which prevent his 
leaving town ? ” 

“ Ah, poor papa ! his country is his home ; the 
people his family.” 

Mr. Archer thought these limits might be nar- 
rowed with advantage. 

“What about Frank?” he asked, a little 
anxiously. 

“ I am afraid Frank’s disappointment about Wini- 
fred has soured his temper,” she returned. “ He is 
seldom at home now. I suppose to walk off his 
displeasure he scours the country alone, as Charlie 
can not leave Louie.” 

Mr. Archer wished he was alone, or only tried to 
get rid of his discomfiture by simple exercise. 
Unfortunately, he knew better— or worse. 

“ Horace,” questioned Ethel, in turn, “ I have 
often wished to ask you what you think of the 
attachment between Louie and Charlie ?’ 

“ I think if it is to endure it must be tried.” 

“ How do you mean — by absence ? ” 

“ That may be oneway.” 

“ Which of them do you doubt or fear?” 

He looked into her eyes. 

“ May I tell you ? ” 

“ Yes, any thing.” 

“Then Louie,” he said. “The very sameness of 
their courtship will make her get tired of it, If slm 


134 


“ Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


married Charlie now she would be miserable, or 
make him so. Even the partial agitation of their 
little quarrels is not sufficient to clear the atmos- 
phere ; it only causes a petty diversion when a stiff 
breeze would be required. Both need strength of 
purpose and endeavor, and she must learn the value 
of the love with which she trifles — drops to-day and 
takes up again to-morrow.” 

“ You are hard, Horace.” 

“ I would never be so to you, my own.” 

“Ay, but to mine,” she returned, smiling. “Is 
there no room for improvement in your brother ? ” 

“ Much,” he said, gravely. “ Charlie must learn 
self-control, to command respect. He has to study 
and work hard to gain an independence before he 
can hope to win your sister.” 

“ That would be a trial,” sighed Ethel ; “ a weary 
waiting.” 

“ But true love can bear that test. It is what the 
Lord asks of us.” 

“ It is so different.” 

“ Perhaps in character, but not in kind.” 

This was rather ^beyond Ethel’s comprehension, 
whose intellect was not of the keenest ; and she still 
invariably put aside whatever required a mental 
effort. Her mind only received the idea of the 
tedium of waiting. 

Lord Lytton says, “ Strong is the patience that is 
born of hope ”. Ay, with a bright end in view, a 
glorious promise, the heart can bear, the mind sus- 
tain ; but without it life would be a dreary waste, 
the future a blank, How terrible to have no herO' 


JVat'f and Work. 


135 


after ! to have lived our all, and have nothing left 
on earth but to suffer and be still ! Instead of gaz- 
ing down a brightening vista, to see a high black 
wall bounding our despair. Oh ! well it is for those 
to whom the rolling years must bring but added joy, 
for on them will be stamped fresh records of tender- 
ness and care. 

Well is it for those to whom death itself is but 
the opening of the portals of life. A gloomy 
portal it may be, but beyond is a radiant space. 

Waiting is, indeed, one of the hardest tests that 
divine love can ask ; one of the hardest things for 
human nature to bear. How slow we are to learn 
that lesson, “In your patience possessye your souls ” ; 
yet, truly we have need of it, for the way home is 
ofttimes dreary, and our feet pierced with thorns and 
briers as we tread it, sadly and alone. But “ truth 
in absence ” will have its reward — the sympathy of 
the unseen Friend here, and the full fruition of His 
presence hereafter. 

Mr. Ruthin gave his consent to his daughter’s 
union. He was glad of it, in short, for directly he 
was awakened to his responsibility he desired to 
shuffle it off, and he was as proud as he could be of 
any movement that was not for the public benefit. 
If it had been well that Mr. Archer should merge the 
man in the minister, it would have been also well 
that Mr. Ruthin should, in some measure, merge the 
politician in the father. Each duty might have been 
fulfilled. 

Mr. Archer had a long conversation with his 
brother. Charlie chose to enter the Royal Irish 


136 ^'Marvelous in Our Eyes." 

Constabulary, for which, indeed, he had been already 
studying. 

h'or his sake their only sister, Jane, resided in 
town, and spent her slender means freely, though 
she would have much preferred keeping house for 
her elder brother at Cliffcoole. Still, they judged it 
would not be well to leave a young man so easily led 
as Charlie was, wholly to his own resources, and 
without a home. It was therefore arranged (though, 
of course, with much regret from all the parties 
concerned) that Charlie and his sister should return 
to town immediately. Miss Freeman, who had out- 
stayed the allotted time for her visit, resolved to 
accompany them ; but Winifred could not leave her 
friends. 

“ If you are really attached to Miss Ruthin, you 
will prove it by a steady endeavor to win her,” Mr. 
Archer said to his brother. “ You know you have 
little else but your profession to depend upon. Her 
influence over you will be for good, and even in 
absence you will act and feel as though she was still 
by your side. There can be no real separation to 
those who are one in heart.” 

Charlie received the good advice, backed as it was 
by a check for a fair amount, very gratefully. He 
was under great obligations to his brother, and his 
better nature was thoroughly aroused. He resolved 
to set to work in downright earnest, to render him- 
self independent, so that he might, as Horace had 
done, be able to ask Mr. Ruthin for his daughter. He 
longed to take her away from her father’s uncertain 
guardianship into his earnest care. 


IVaty and Work. 


137 

It gave Mr, Archer great satisfaction to think that 
his brother would be wholly removed from Frank 
Ruthin’s companionship and influence. A week 
had now passed since the adventure in the cave, 
and they had not met. Frank was absent for some 
days on an exploring expedition, it was said, with a 
casual acquaintance. Mr. Archer shrewdly doubted 
the truth of this story, and believed the expedition 
was other than his sisters thought. 

Louie’s bright eyes were dim with tears at the 
thought of her lover’s departure. She felt it very 
hard of Mr. Archer to insist on his brother’s going 
back to town before the summer was over. The 
early autumn months would be the finest and most 
beneficial at the seaside ; health should be the first 
consideration ; and had not Charlie the whole winter 
long to study ? It must be admitted the young man 
bore these childish complainings very patiently — 
perhaps softened by the tears. 

“ Louie,” he said, sadly, “will you not tell me to 
go for your sake — to work and be strong?” 

For one moment the childish nature of the girl 
was touched, and she said : 

“ Work and be strong for me." 

He thanked her — we will not say how! 

It was their last evening together. At Charlie’s 
request, Louie went to the piano, and sang to him. 
Never had she sung more exquisitely, and when she 
ceased tears stood in many eyes unseen in the dying 
light. Strangely the minds of the three girls went 
back to a somewhat similar scene, when Louie had 
idly boasted she would “ charm the natives ” in their 


138 


Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


projected visit to Cliffcoole. All ! the charm had 
wrought deeper, and recoiled until it wound around 
herself. 

“ Oh, Louie,” whispered poor Charlie, “how could 
you have sung that ? ” 

It was not calculated, indeed, to impart the strength 
he needed, and as Miss Ruthin left the instru- 
ment, herself for once overcome, Winifred took her 
place. 

Winifred could not sing, but was an accomplished 
instrumentalist. She now played a grand march. 
It was solemn, yet inspiriting; every note after the 
first hesitation, seemed a steady advance, until it 
reached the triumphant chords of victory. As Danny 
Connor had once said, after listening to these strains 
through an open window, “ It was like spakin’.” In 
some way Charlie Archer felt strengthened and 
refreshed, and the saddening influence was in a great 
measure dispelled. He resolved anew to work 
bravely and wait. 

And so the first gap in the happy party at the 
seaside was made, and so the first parting came. 
Hearts which had bounded lightly as the foam upon 
the ocean with every changeful emotion and vary- 
ing circumstance, now grew heavy and depressed. 
None knew how much Louie’s vivacity and ready wit 
contributed to the general amusement until they 
missed it. For a whole week — a whole week — an 
age for her, Louie’s rich voice was silent, and her 
light laughter failed to wake the echoes around 
Cliffcoole. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


TEMPTATION. 

Danny Connor and Will Joyce were tossing in 
their boat on the water. The lines were out, but 
fish were not rising; they had toiled long, “and 
taken nothing”. Will was silent and dissatisfied. 
Of late his brow had been gloomy, and his smile less 
frequent, except when with Minnie — pretty Minnie, 
on whom one could not choose but smile. Danny, 
who rose superior to adversity, and was generally in 
an equable frame of mind as of body, sang to 
himself, as usual — 

“ ‘ Ding- Jong;,’ sounded the bell 

An’ ‘ ding-dong,’ sounded the sea ; 

For both rang out the knell 

Of the lad who was cornin’ to me.” 

“ Did you ever sing any thing pleasant in your life 
Danny? ’’asked Will, testily. 

“ Ay,” returned the lad ; “ it’s all pleasant.” 

“ Like our work,” replied the young man, sulkily; 
“ pleasant to them as likes it ; an’ that ain’t 
me.” 

“Don’t you like fishing, Will? I loves to be on 
the water.” 

“ An' I’m sick of it in this way.” 


140 Marvelous in Our Eyes I' 

“Would you like to be aboard a schooner?” 
asked Danny. 

This was the sumnuit of his ambition; but there 
being no response, Danny resumed his singing and 
muttering. 

“The fish in the sei, and the birds in the nest, 

The day is for toil, and the night is for rest.” 

“ Heigh-ho ! well, God knows what’s best for us 
all.” 

“ Danny,” began Will again, after a pause, “there’s 
a lot of fellows at Dirty Jemima’s now and they 
are all flush of cash.” 

“ Ay ! ” 

“It’s hard on a fellow like me, that’s young an’ 
strong, that he must toil an’ toil, an’ a week’s 
airnin’s only go for a day’s grub.” 

“Ye haven’t my arms,” put in Danny. 

“ Arms or no arms,” retorted Will, as he hauled 
in a fish, baited his line anew, and threw it out with 
a jerk ; “what’s the good on ’em? ” 

“A day’s grub ain’t a bad thing,” said Danny, 
reflectively ; “ there’s mother an’ Minnie to be fed.” 

“ Minnie ! ” replied Will, with a very audible sigh. 
“ It’s all for Minnie.” , 

“What is? Will, have you any money? ” 

“ No, but I mean to get some ; more than I have 
had yet.” 

This did not produce any wonderful effect upon 
Danny’s mind ; though ready enough to take money 
for his mother’s sake, he did not value it for his 
own. 

The truth was. Will had been tampered with. 


Te^nptation. 141 

Smuggling was then being practiced on the coast to 
an alarming extent, and there were few in the coun- 
try round who were not engaged in, or in some 
measure interested in it. Will saw his mates with 
well-lined pockets, despising poor trades, engaging 
in hazardous expeditions, and venturing on contra- 
band exchanges with grand results, and felt jealous 
and abashed. He was abashed at his own weakness 
and insufficiency, envious of their success; and had 
almost resolved on joining their league, but did not 
know how to break off his connection with Danny. 
Again, Danny would prove a most efficient helper, 
could he be won over. No arm more bold, no eye 
more true ; while every nook and corner of the 
coast around was known to him. Danny could never 
be in danger of arrest, for no one could dare to fol- 
low where he might lead. Then, again, he was 
wholly trustworthy, and would rather die than 
betray a secret committed to his keeping. At this 
thought Will had almost determined to interest his 
companion in his doubtful schemes for their mutual 
benefit. 

In the long silence that ensued, Danny, as was his 
wont, interspersed his songs with prayers. 

“ ‘ Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us 
from evil.’ ” 

Will dared not tempt him then. 

“ What’s ‘ temptation ’ ? ” asked Danny. 

“I don’t know; don’t bother me with it.” was the 
rough reply. 

The next moment Will asked a question too. 

“What’s ‘deliver us from evil 


142 Marvelous in Our Eyes” 

“ 1 knows that,” returned Danny, proudly. “ It’s 
from chatin’ or stalin’, or throuble of any sort.” 

“Do you think God troubles Himself about 
watching every little thing we do ? ” 

“Yes,” said Danny, “ mother says so.” (Mother 
with him was infallible.) 

No, Will could not tamper with the lad’s simple 
faith. God had indeed kept him in “ the hour of 
temptation ”. 

Danny had not forgotten his purpose of watching 
for, and, if possible, discovering Mr. Archer’s secret 
assailants. Night after night, when not out on the 
water, he had lain concealed, until bit by bit all the 
smugglers’ ventures and schemes became known to 
him. He received several allusions to the clergy- 
man’s detention in the cave, and knew as well ay 
that gentleman who had taken part against him. 
Danny hated Frank Ruthin for troubling Minnie; 
he hated him yet more for his attack upon an 
unarmed and unprotected man ; and yet, with 
strange inconsistency, he resolved to shield him to 
the utmost from the consequences of his evil con- 
duct. For his beautiful sister’s sake, Danny would 
undo the wrong he had once done, and save the life 
of his enemy. 

He was called upon to do so sooner than he 
thought. A few nights after the above conversa- 
tion, Will having refused to join him on the water, 
Danny was forced to remain on shore, and hailed 
the time as a golden opportunity for adding to his 
stock of information. 

He knew there was to be an attempted landing 


Temptation. 143 

that night, and was acquainted with all the details 
almost as well as those concerned in it. One thing, 
however, he did not know — that his mate Will Joyce 
was pledged to take a share in the hazard and gain. 

A vessel in the harbor was suspected ; the coast- 
guards had boarded her without result. The cap- 
tain’s wife lay ill in her cabin, but offered no objec- 
tion to the strict search that was instituted. She 
only looked round feebly, and it was evident from 
her pale cheeks and languid eyes could make no 
effort in “this world of efforts Neither custom- 
house officers nor coast-guardsmen knew that 
beneath her night-cap, ay, within the plaits of her 
abundant hair, were folds of costly lace, while round 
her body were coils of finest silk, and for her bolster 
a roll of tobacco. So on through the ship, loose 
planks and hollow paneling had been constructed 
with singular ingenuity since the schooner left the 
docks and had a dishonest commander. Her crew 
were picked men. 

More than Danny had some inkling of the 
intended landing. Two coast-guardsmen turned 
into his mother’s cabin to light their pipes. Danny 
followed their quiet patrol, and as they returned and 
seated themselves under the shelter of a rock stood 
listening to their yarns with eager interest. All 
knew and trusted him. One story especially 
delighted him, and so engaged his attention he was 
quite unconscious of what was passing near, until 
roused by an exclamation from one of his compan- 
ions, met by a still more startling reply— 

“Hark! what was that?” 

“A pistol-shot! ” 

►1 


CHAPTER XIX. 


BY SEA. 

The men started to their feet, and hurried on. As 
they rounded a headland, they came in view of an 
exciting scene. A band of smugglers were engaged 
in a hand-to-hand combat with a party of coast-guards. 
One man lay motionless on the shelving strand, and 
beside his apparently dead body the others strove 
with desperate resolve. But victoryappeared rather 
in favor of the coast-guards, whose chief officer was 
still unhurt, and who kept his men together with 
wonderful precision and coolness. Then he closed 
with the leader of the gang, who had fought desper- 
ately, but who was now immediately surrounded and 
captured. More arrests folloAved, while some broke 
loose and ignobly fled ; and so the deadly affray was 
over. 

As Danny followed his companions, a light active 
figure broke from the confused throng, and fled 
toward them, rushing right into his arms. Those 
long arms closed round him like a vise, and then the 
fisher-lad, breathless and excited, paused to look 
upon the face of the man he held. It was the enemy 
he had vowed to spare. 

“Save me, for my sisters’ sake!” gasped Frank 
Ruthin, hoarsely, “ I am lost if taken,” 


Bv Sea. 


145 


Without another word Danny turned, and with 
his arm through the young man’s, guided his before 
aimless flight, interposing his own body between 
him and one or two shots which by the officer’s direc- 
tion were fired after them. How they scaled the 
cliff neither could tell ; but ere long they were on its 
summit alone, and in comparative safety. 

The wind had risen and swept round them, thus 
exposed, as if it cried furiously for vengeance, and 
would fain bear them back to their pursuers; but 
they heeded it not. On and on yet a little way they 
press in the darkness, and then Frank Ruthin 
stumbled against a large bare stone. 

“ Help me to shove it aside,” gasped Danny. 
“ Lend a hand, man, with a will.” 

With arm and shoulder, straining every nerve, they 
moved it from its place. Then a hole in the earth 
underneath was apparent. 

“ Let yourself down,” whispered Danny ; “ I will 
help you. Don’t be afeard ; I will come back for 
you when the danger’s gone.” 

Taking Frank Ruthin by the arms, he lowered 
him gently through the aperture ; then, with almost 
superhuman strength, the large stone was rolled back 
in its place, and the fisher-lad stood alone on the 
familiar place once more. He gazed out to sea. 
There was no moon, but by the light of myriads of 
stars he saw the water heaving and surging up like a 
creature in pain. He saw afar upon its bosom the 
light of the suspected schooner ; it was swaying 
round, and Danny rightly conjectured she would put 
to sea under cover of night. Beneath him were dark 


146 


Marvelous in Our Eyes." 


forms, some moving about as if in search, some bear- 
ing the wounded away. A party of the revenue 
police had arrived at the scene of action, and through 
their aid the prisoners were secured. Then, again, 
Danny saw that strong, tall figure led away between 
two others, offering no resistance now. He knew it 
well ; he had seen it in darkness and sunshine, by 
night and day ; it was his old friend and companion 
Will Joyce. 

Yes, Will had not prayed, “Lead us not into 
temptation, but deliver us from evil ; ” but Danny 
had, and would pray so again. 

Why was it that some such thought as this crossed 
the mind of the lonely watcher? How was it that 
never had he such power of reflection, never could 
he so look abroad into the present, forward to the 
future, or had memory been so clear as then ? It 
seemed as if the fresh, strong breeze was blowing 
away the mists which had so long clouded his brain. 
Was it that he was doing a brave deed? was saving 
a life and returning good for evil? or was it — 

The place into which he lowered Frank Ruthin 
was a narrow cave or hollow, without outlet save a 
small drain into which the water ran at high tide, 
and through which air was admitted. The tide was 
now going out, but it would turn, and in an}' case 
he could not leave his charge long imprisoned there. 
He stood still to deliberate, as gifted with full reason- 
ing powers. Yes, and he did resolve. 

He turned, and at a quick, swinging pace set off 
towards Coolum Lodge. He had not seen any of 
the young ladies for the past few days, and now 


By Sea. 


147 


when he drew near the place a strange awe and chill 
fell upon him. The lower part of the house was in 
darkness, but in an upper room burned a steady- 
light. Suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, and 
there looked out upon him a face he knew ; it was 
Miss Lome’s. 

Tie stood in the stream of light which issued forth, 
and beckoned to her — beckoned earnestly and vig- 
orously. Winifred gazed upon the strange apparition 
until it grew familiar. Then the curtain dropped, 
and the next moment she was by his side, bearing a 
small lamp. 

“Did you want me, Danny ?” she asked, gently, 
but her face was white, and eyes swollen from 
crying. 

Danny looked up into the wan, worn face, and 
again the strange fear grew upon him. 

“ Master Frank,” he said, for so he had learned to 
call him. 

“What of him?” 

“ He’s been doin’ wrong ; he might have been took, 
but I hid him. Can you hide him here?” 

“ Wrong ? ” Winifred’s mind did not receive the 
idea the poor lad meant to convey. “What 
wrong?” 

“ He was with the smugglers, an’ he’s hurted a 
man bad ! he may be killed ! ” 

“ Killed ! ” Winifred recoiled in horror. 

“ Danny,” she whispered, wringing her hands, 
“take him anywhere; he must not come here. 

Miss Ethel ” here she broke down utterly. 

“ What ? ” 


148 


Marvelous in Our Eyes!' 


“ Is dying,” came out with a sob. 

Dying ! What was that? Who said it? Danny 
recoiled in turn as with a sudden blow which left him 
stunned. Was she going up to the great God, above 
the stars, his mother would have said ; going right 
away from earth? 

Up to the angels whom he had pictured often in 
their shining robes, and with their sweet voices sing- 
ing as no mortal could ever sing? 

But then they would never see her more. Danny 
had looked upon a familiar face as it lay in death, 
but it was strangely unfamiliar, and he was glad when 
they hid it from his sight, for it only shocked and 
appalled. 

He was stunned, as we have said ; then, as on 
the cliff, the strange gleam of intelligence came back, 
and as Winifred whispered, “ Save him for her 
sake,” he returned as solemnly — 

“ For her sake, I will.” 

Night was still upon the water, solemn, dark and 
wild ; though the small hours of morning, as yet 
there was no morning gleam, when a small boat, 
manned by two men, silently pushed out from the 
shore. Quietly and cautiously they rowed, dipping 
light oars into the rising tide with a gentle, muffled 
motion. Once out from the shore, they bent to 
them with a will, pulling vigorously with all the 
strength they could command. 

Wave after wave broke over them ; they were 
tossed like foam upon the ocean’s breast, yet still 
they strove and toiled, and toiled and strove. 


149 


By Sea. 

“ Danny, may we hoist the sail ? ” 

“ Ay, ay.” 

In another minute they were skimming along, now 
rising on the crest of a billow, now sinking into the 
trough of the sea, but steering ever for the dark 
schooner under motion, with all her canvas set. 

- Danny had hoisted the sail. 

“ Danny, man, tell me again what she said ? ” 

“ She said Miss Ethel was dying.” 

“Oh, God forgive me !” groaned the miserable 
brother ; “ I loved her best, and might have been so 
good to them, but now, to look upon me would be 
shame; for her it would be death. Yes, I must 
escape.” 

“ You shall.” 

No man of keen intellect could have said it more* 
sensibly ; poor Danny ! 

At last the dark vessel was reached, and crashing, 
dashing against its side came the light boat. Now 
it was swept away by a huge billow, which thoroughly 
drenched its occupants, then again drew nigh. At 
last Danny managed to get hold of a rope, and 
Frank Ruthin, completely exhausted, was dragged 
on deck. Danny was left alone. 

Alone on the dark water ; alone in a sinking boat. 
The schooner swept on her way with a favorable 
wind, but left one brave heart behind worth all her 
dark keeping. 

That last dash had stove a plank. Danny knew it 
too late. 

He was a bold swimmer and struck out bravely. 
The tide was running in, as we have said, but the 


150 Marvelo2is in Our Eyes." 

wind was against him, and wave after wave broke 
over his devoted head. He tried to float, rose up 
with wonderful strength again to breast the billows, 
and once a shout for help rang out on the air. Frank 
Ruthin, who had recovered consciousness, and stood 
leaning over the side of the schooner, gazing in the 
direction of the shore, heard it, and, straining his 
eyes through the darkness, followed in thought the 
struggle he could not discern. He made an effort 
even then to save the brave lad, but the captain 
positively refused to turn, or to run the risk of any 
delay. 

Strange to say, the cry was borne on the wind to 
a lone Avoman on the nearest strip of land, who was 
without the power to aid. Bending her ears to the 
water’s edge, she fancied she heard the words, 
“ Catch a grip of me now,” and concluded that help 
had come to the distressed one in his hour of need. 

Did he, indeed, call upon earthly aid then? or had 
there risen in his mind at that awful moment the 
remembrance of a scene with Avhich he had become 
strangely familiar? Perhaps he thought the Lord 
still walked on the face of the deep as of old ; per- 
haps he saw “ One like unto the Son of Man ” draw- 
ing nigh unto him in his great peril and need. This 
we may know — there was a loving arm around him, 
and through the dark flood poor Danny Connor was 
borne safely home. 

Thus help came, and through death deliverance. 


CHAPTER XX. 


ON LAND. 

In that lighted chamber which Winifred Lome had 
quitted to give poor Danny Connor his last charge, 
Ethel Ruthin lay breathing her young life away. A 
violent fit of coughing the previous night had caused 
the rupture of a blood-vessel, and severe hemorrhage 
of the lungs ensued. The doctor who was hastily 
summoned, strictly enjoined silence and a total 
absence of excitement, but all felt this would only 
prolong life for a little time ; the ulterior hope of a 
rally and partial restoration was scarcely entertained. 

Her father was telegraphed for, and had arrived. 
With a curtain drawn between him and his youngest, 
fairest child, he sat near the head of the bed, entirely 
broken down. He was not allowed to speak to her, 
and probably would not have wished to do so if per- 
mitted. Had he given way to the feelings of his 
heart he would have been kneelirhg on the ground in 
deep contrition, crying, “ Forgive me, oh, my child ! ” 
He felt now how ill he had performed a parent’s 
duty ; how unfaithful his guardianship had been. 
Her Father in heaven knew this, and was taking his 
daughter to Himself, away from his nominal care. 
Ah, when we are losing a blessing we too often begin 


152 Marvelous in Our Eyes." 

to prize it ; and the sense of all vve might have been 
comes with the revelation of what we are. 

Frank was absent; none knew where. She had 
not asked for him ; indeed, it spoke little for his 
kindness that she did not wish to see him ; only she 
said once, when they thought she was going — 

“ Give my love to Frank. Tell him to love me 
still.” 

“ Love her still ! ” She would not have ceased to 
be, she was only going away ; but she had life. That 
which she longed for had been given to her ; not rest 
only, but life. 

Mr. Archer, Winifred, and Louisa kept unceasing 
watch beside her bed. Loor Louie ! life was not, as 
she had fondly thought, a gay dream, or vain chase 
after pleasure. That which she clung to was failing, 
and the younger sister, so tenderly beloved, was pass- 
ing from her side forever. A pall seemed to have 
fallen over every thing earthly, until there appeared 
no future for her. Oh, was it forever? In that sad 
hour, when she stood face to face with death, Louie 
would have given worlds, had she possessed them, to 
know that she, too, was safe for eternity, and they 
might meet again. 

We can not touch Mr. Archer’s sorrow ; it lay too 
deep for human ministry; was too sacred for us to 
draw aside the veil and seek to analyze or explore. 

Suddenly Ethel stirred as if in sleep, and unclosed 
her eyes, those beautiful soft eyes over which the 
film of death was already stealing. 

“ Winifred.” 

“ Yes, darling.” 


On Land. 


153 


“ Is the night wild ? ” 

“ Very.” 

“ I hear the sound of the sea.” 

She might have done so, though they heard it 
not. 

“ Is the moon on the water ? ” 

“ No ; my dearest, you must not talk so — it is bad 
for you.” 

“ Ah, I must indeed ; you will soon not hear my 
voice. I should like to see the moon, on the water 
once more.” 

■ “ ‘ The city hath no need of the sun, neither of the 
moon to shine in it : for the glory of God doth 
lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof ’,” Wini- 
fred said.. 

The dying girl thanked her with a look. 

“ Winifred, dear— dearest friend, if ever you find 
you can take my place, do, and be more than I 
could have been. When the time comes, remember 
this.” 

Winifred gave the desired assurance; yes, she 
would watch over Louie as a sister, and bring what 
comfort she could into the desolate home. It was 
not till long, long afterward she thought there might 
be another meaning in the words. 

The feeble hand of the dying girl drew her friend 
toward her, and their lips met in one long parting 
kiss. 

Mr. Archer took his place beside the bed. 

“ Horace, it is best as it is ; you will think so 
yet.” 

Ah ! best for her it might be. But for him 


154 Marvelous in Our Eyes." ~ 

I^e buried his face in the coverlet, kneeling by her 
side. 

“ God comfort you — He can. Will you pray for 
me ? ” 

He steadied his voice, and, in low, quiet tones, the 
words which commended her to their loving Father’s 
care, seeking grace to bear for her and for them in 
their sore hour of need, arose. 

“ You all love me,” she whispered, at its close, 
“but Jesus best — He best. You will try to say, 
‘Thy will be done ’ ? ” 

Again she said — 

“ I hear the sound of the sea; it does not cease, 
but it rests me now.” 

It might have been “ as the voice of many 
waters, tire voice of harpers harping with their 
harps ”. 

“You will soon rest with Christ.” 

“Yes; His presence rests me now. He is with 
me, and I’m not afraid to go with Him.” 

“ ‘ Fear thou not ; for I am with thee ; be not dis- 
mayed ; for I am thy God : I will strengthen thee ; 
yea, I will help thee ; yea, I will uphold thee with 
the right hand of my righteousness,’ ” Mr. Archer 
said. 

“He is as good as His word. I feel such peace — 
such — rest — my heaven is begun. It is so near; 
Jesus is so real. Horace, I used to think what you 
said beautiful, but I could not always understand it. 
Now I feel as if I knew a great deal more than you 
do, only I can not say it. Can you sing a hymn ? ” 

“ May I say it ? ” he asked. 


On Land. 1 5 5 

He feared to trust their voices ; feared disturbing 
her by sudden outbursts of grief. 

“Yes,” she whispered. “‘Oh! Christ, He is the 
fountain 1 ’ ” 

He repeated it slowly and without faltering. 

“ The sands of time were sinking,” but “ the dawn 
of heaven ” was breaking for her. 

“ Is it near day-dawn ? ” 

“Very near, my love, my own,” murmured Mr. 
Archer, with an irrepressible burst of grief ; “ the 
day is dawning now. ‘ The Master is come, and 
calleth for thee.’ ” 

He saw the change upon her face, the gleam in 
the dying eyes. He bent his head and kissed her 
brow for the last time in life ; and then Ethel’s part- 
ing gaze turned slowly round on all she loved — 
rested on her father, who had pressed forward, rested 
on her sister, on Winifred, a little longer on her 
lover, and then turned upward to see her “ King of 
grace ” beckoning her homeward. 

And so, by a quiet way, befitting one so tender, 
that night she was taken up from earth to God, as 
one had gone for her sake by a harder, rougher path, 
quitting this troublous life. Do spirits meet and 
blend in full communion ? Or recked they of the 
sorrows they had left by land and by sea ? 

They did not lay her beside the sounding sea, 
whose giant play she had loved to watch. With 
strange care for the poor clay which he had not 
cherished sufficiently in life, her father had it con- 
veyed some twenty miles further inland to the 
family burying-place. No matter where his ran- 


156 Marvelous in Our Eyes I' 

somed ones sleep, “ the Lord will know where to find 
them when He comes”. Over the face of the broad 
ocean, pathways will be apparent for the redeemed 
to pass through as they come from their watery 
graves, “ by the way of the sea ” ; while from quiet 
church-yards and shady nooks, from hill-side and 
valley, from “ dens and caves of the earth ”, and 
where the sacred ashes which a funeral pyre have 
left have been strewn, will arise a countless throng, 
“ to meet the Lord in the air ; and so shall we ever 
be with the Lord”. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


THROUGH THE WAITING. 


A YEAR had passed, and Louie Ruthin was much 
changed. Her manner was quieter, and her eyes 
lacked their former dancing light, but the irresolute 
lines about the mouth did not quiver and play as of 
yore, and this of itself gave the face a graver charac- 
ter, and some might have thought a greater charm. 
On their first return to town after the bereavement, 
her father had made an effort to become affectionate 
and companionable, but the force of habit was too 
strong, while she had never been accustomed to treat 
him with the freedom of that love which castethout 
fear, so they had gradually drifted back into their 
old mode of life. He was once more immersed in 
politics, convening meetings, writing circulars, or 
haranguing appreciative audiences. Did the shadow 
that had fallen upon him by the sea, the shadow of 
a great shame and a great loss, ever darken his mind 
and sadden his heart ? Who could tell ? At all 
events, if it did, he never betrayed it. He settled a 
suitable pension on the man who was disabled for 
life by his son’s violence, insuring secrecy, and 
seemed to banish the disgraceful affair thenceforth 
from his memory. 


158 Marvelous in Our Eyes." 

For his daughter he provided wisely in inducing 
Miss Freeman, by the offer of a liberal salary, to 
become her companion. Louie might have become 
gloomy or even fanatical, but for his choice of her 
companion. Miss Freeman’s piety was so unobtru- 
sive she could not turn aside from it in antagonism, 
yet there it was in Miss Ruthin’s household, ruling 
and directing every day, making the rough places 
easy to tread, and the most uninteresting occupa- 
tions beautiful to her humble companion. Aunt 
Isabella’s invincible good-humor was proof against 
any stray shafts of malice or satire which Louie 
could launch at her, and as Charlie Archer before 
had done when viewing his brother’s life, Louie was 
now constrained to admit that there was a sustaining 
and satisfying portion in the Christian calling. 

From Charlie she heard regularly. He had passed 
his examination creditably, and was with the depot 
in Dublin. At the end of the 3^ear, of which there 
now remained only two or three months, he would 
be his own master ; and if she were willing to share 
his poverty, might even ask her of her father. Mr. 
Ruthin was a man of good means, able to give his 
daughter — one might say, his onl^' child — a suitable 
portion ; but to yield young Archer the credit due 
to him, he scarcely thought of this, or if he did, only- 
in the light of an obstacle to the furtherance of his 
claim. However, he would wait, and hope. 

Winifred managed to see her friend constantly ; 
indeed, this was part of the day’s duties which must 
not be set aside, and the pleasantest time the girls 
had was when they sat together for an hour or two 


159 


Through the Watting. 

in the quiet eventide. In spite of Miss Freeman’s 
companionship and influence, which counteracted 
much that would have tended to the exuberance of 
evil, Winifred was pained still to perceive in Louie 
a growing discontent, producing inactivity rather 
than restlessness. She privately communicated the 
anxiety this awakened to Mr. Archer on his next 
visit. 

“ She needs rousing,” he said, “ and a certain 
amount of healthful pleasure. This sort of hopeless 
calm is the worst thing for a nature like hers, and 
would unfit her for a useful future. She now only 
lives in that future, and thinks she must drag through 
a weary waiting as best she can, until she becomes 
Charlie’s wife. She must learn to live in the pres- 
ent ; to see that she is not only neglecting positive 
duties, but losing positive pleasures.” 

He thought for awhile. 

“ Do you believe she was much impressed by — by 
what has passed ? ” 

“ Deeply — more than I could tell,” replied Wini- 
fred, “ but I can not say savingly. Sometimes I hope 
she longs for a better, that is, a lasting portion, for 
she seems to feel almost morbidly the transitory 
nature of every thing.” 

“ Poor child ! ” he said, “ dear child ! Winifred, 
you will be glad to hear that Charlie is in every way 
showing himself worthy of a woman’s trust.” 

She was glad to know it. (Mr. Archer had always 
called her Winifred since the trouble they had 
known, but to her he was Mr. Archer still.) 

I3oth Louie Ruthin and Winifred had visits at 


i6o Marvelous in Our Eyes." 

stated intervals from Mr. Archer; indeed, with the 
former he corresponded regularly, watching over her 
interests and comfort as an elder brother might do. 
He quite approved of Miss Freeman’s companion- 
ship for her, and of Winifred’s patient home course. 
For the latter it was a discipline which her quick, 
independent spirit needed ; and he doubted not she 
would make much progress in humility, self-knowl- 
edge, and simple trust, in God’s school. He told 
her so plainly, and it helped her to go quietly onward. 
It is a great source of strength when we can see the 
hand which is guiding, sustaining, and ready to bless. 
The greatest peace which can be attained by any 
child of God is to have his will merged in the will 
of his Father in heaven. This is the source of holi- 
ness, as well as the fountain of joy. Mr. Archer 
watched with intense interest the formation of Win- 
ifred’s Christian character in adverse circumstances. 
Both the girls relied on him, and neither of them 
would have taken any serious step without his cog- 
nizance and sanction. 

Mr. Archer was but little changed, only he looked 
somewhat older and graver than he had done a few 
months previously. Sorrow at least had not hard- 
ened his heart, for many in his parish could tell that 
never had they met more real and living sympathy, 
such patient endurance and firm support, such loving 
entreaty, as from this outwardly calm, self-contained 
man. He was always giving heart and soul to his 
work, but now he lived only in it. He brought to it 
the savor as well as strength of the Master’s pres- 
ence, until all felt he was in truth “ a man of God ”, 


Through the Wait mg. 


i6i 

One of Winifred’s greatest pleasures at this time 
was a letter from Minnie Connor, of which we give 
a faithful transcript. It confirmed some good news 
she had previously learned. 

Dare Lady, — This cums hopping to find you quiet well as it laves 
me at present thanks be to God for it dare lady you will be thankeful 
to hare mother is quiet well an not thrubble minded. She ses she nos 
her boy is happy an God is good an she will be with him afore long 
dare lady God keep the sickness an thrubble from us an i hope it may 
be long she may be speared to me on airth. dare lady you will be 
glad to hare i have got a good situashon thanks to the good clargyman 
im not with mother but im not away from her nayther as I sees her 
reglar. dare lady the best of nuse is Wills ackwitted Mister Archur 
he gets a charaktar for him from all the gentlefolks round as has none 
him amost from his berth an they shows as he was deludered into jin- 
ing the smuglers an did not do it from badness as evryboddy nows 
Will had no badness in him. So they left him off I dun no how but 
som ses thare was a bale an mony ped an Mister Archur he nos i sed 
he mite gow to Amerika and shure i ud folly him the wureld ovur only 
for the tought of my poor mother an he could get out in wan of tliem 
big Kunard ships you seen for six pounds of money t’ e best of food 
concluded, but no me girl says he i will stop whare I am he ses untill 
i gets me good naim back and when i gets my good naim back ile give 
it you, he ses. So dare lady i am jest watcing an trjdng to be a good 
girl an worthy of a good man untill he talks me for his wife mother 
sends her dooty an if im not too bould no more at pressent. — i remanes 
yore umble sarvent Minne Goner. 

p <5. — Dare lady the best of nuse is the man as you nows on was 
hurted bad is rekovered. dare lady if youv nothing to say doen’t 
thrubble to rite it but ide be prode to get a letther from you sain how 
is Miss Ruden an yerself. 

Such was little Minnie Connor’s letter. Winifred 
gave her full credit for the diction, if not for the 
caligraphy. She knew Minnie could read, but not 
write. It contained much to give joy to the young 
lady, especially the assurance of the coast-guard’s 


1 62 Marvelous in Our Eyes." 

recovery. She was thankful, also, to know the 
widow’s faith had not failed in the hour of trial. It 
was like the fire in Bunyan’s “ Pilgrim’s Progress 
though water was poured upon it, it was not put out, 
for (as he perceived) one was secretly supplying it 
with oil from behind. 

Yes, the fire which divine love had kindled in Mrs. 
Connor’s heart the same grace could well sustain 
unto the end ; and in all her sore affliction, in her 
darkest and loneliest hours, she could say, “Though 
He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.” 

Winifred found something to say in reply to Min- 
nie Connor’s letter — enough, indeed, to fill four sides 
of her sheet of paper in a clear, round hand, easy to 
decipher. She expressed her delight at Will Joyce’s 
acquittal, and full confidence in him, in a way that 
not only made poor Minnie’s heart beat high with 
satisfaction, but brought something very like a 
tear to the rough fisherman’s face as he heard 
of it. 

“God bless her!” he said, huskily. “It is a fine 
thing to have the prayers of the good, an’ if she 
niver comes down to our cabin by the sea. I’ll thry 
an’ do my duty theer the better for knowin’ such as 
her thinks o’ me, and will be glad to hear me an’ me 
purty wife is doin’ well.” 

“She is a dear good lady ! ” sighed Minnie. 

“ Ay, lass, ay ; she had a sperit in her that none 
of the rest had, and a way of saying right out what 
was in her mind. She a-minds me of a fair wind,” 
continued Will, who was at a loss for a simile, “fresh 
and strong, and in your favor,” 


Through the Waiting. 163 

“ But the wind may be too strong sometimes,” 
laughed Minnie. “ Miss Lome is never furious.” 

“ Well, well,” said poor Will, making up for the 
weakness of his poetical allusions by a kiss, “ people 
aren’t al’ays like things, you know.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


CORRECTING A MISTAKE. 

It was a calm, still evening in the end of “ leafy 
J une ”, and Winifred was gazing forth from her draw- 
ing-room window upon the lightly flecked sky, feel- 
ing strangely carried back in thought to the past, 
until she could almost fancy she heard the murmur 
of the sea and the echo of a dear voice long stilled in 
death — 

“ Winifred, dear friend, if ever you find you can 
take my place, do, and be more than I could have 
been.” 

Had she fulfilled this charge? 

Not to Mr. Ruthin, whom she rarely met. Not in 
household management of any kind ; not even to 
Louise, her most cherished friend. 

Two years had passed since she heard those words ; 
two busy, but not unhappy years. Louie’s probation 
was at an end ; her father, perhaps softened by trial, 
perhaps feeling it was too late for him to seek to 
learn a tender parent’s part, and win a child’s affec- 
tions (a grave mistake in keeping with what had gone 
before), had given his consent to her union with the 
man she loved. Furthermore, he made a handsome 
provision for her, so that she did not come to Charlie 
Archer,, as a portionless bride, and their future 


Correcting a Mistake. 


165 


appeared very bright. None dreamed how long 
and bitterly at that time the old man thought of his 
absent son. He did not reproach himself, however, 
for ill-doing, for neglect of early training, and prayer- 
fully setting right principles before the boy both by 
precept and example. He only said in his heart, as 
if the sowing which produced such wretched fruit 
could not be traced to him — 

“ He is my son no longer ; he shall never darken 
my door — never. On the bed he has spread for 
himself, no matter how hard it may be, let him 
lie.” 

After Louie’s marriage Mr. Ruthin was to reside 
at his club, a prospect which suited him well. 
“Untrammeled by family cares, he might devote 
himself to his country’s good,” he vainly whispered. 
Need we say, his attention to the duties he made his 
own, proved as productive of evil in sowing the 
seeds of anarchy and discontent, as his inattention to 
the natural duties God had given him to fulfill had 
done on a smaller and lower scale. 

Mr. Archer was to perform the marriage ceremony, 
and had come to town for this purpose. He was 
grave and undemonstrative as usual, but told Wini- 
fred some of his schemes which lay near his heart 
for his people’s good, and the awakening of more 
vital Christianity among them. In a few brief 
words he gave her to understand she might aid him 
in some way, and she now waited until it pleased 
him to explain. 

As she stood still gazing on a light bank of cloud 
on this particular evening, and musing not unhappily, 


1 66 '^Marvelous in Our Eyes!' 

on the past and present, she was startled to find he 
had entered unperceived, and stood quietly beside 
her in the failing light. After the first greetings 
were over they relapsed into silence. 

“ Charlie is to be married to-morrow,” he said at 
length ; “have you any fear?” 

“ No,” she replied, gladly. “ Louie will be a good 
wife to him.” 

“ He too has gained much strength of character. 
The waiting has been blessed not only in the attain- 
ment of their hearts’ desire, but in the experience 
gained.” 

There was a long pause again. 

“ Winifred.” 

She looked up quickly at him, but something in 
his face held her silent. 

“ Have you not wished to know how you could 
aid me? I have come to tell you.” 

Still no reply. 

“You can aid in my life-work,” Mr. Archer con- 
tinued very earnestly, bending his face to hers. “ I 
have come to ask you to be my wife.” 

Winifred’s cheek flushed to its deepest crimson, 
but she gave no token of assent. Her gaze' was 
steadily bent on the light bank of cloud. The silence 
grew oppressive. 

“ Winifred,” and now Mr. Archer’s usually calm, 
full tones were shaken, “can you not give me your 
love ? ” 

“You have not told me I have yours,” returned 
Winifred, with some of her former spirit, but with- 
out looking at him. 


Correcting a Mistake. 


167 


He took her hand in both of his. 

“ Winifred, do not let us misunderstand one 
another now. A mistake may be fatal to our happi- 
ness through life, and I have too much at stake — 
love you too well — to risk losing you through a mis- 
take. I love you as truly as man ever loved the 
woman he would choose out from all the world to 
stand by his side in sickness and in health, in weal 
and in woe, to live in his heart as in his home. If 
you can not return my love, and send me from you, 
life will be imbittered. I do not say it will be 
a blank, for no one should say that who can look up 
to God as his Father.” 

“ But — but — I thought your love was all given 
away — had followed another, and never could 
revive,” put in Winifred. 

“ I loved Ethel tenderly, as you know. She came 
into my quiet dull life like a beautiful dream — some- 
thing to be gazed upon and admired, ay, even cher- 
ished, but never brought down to the pooi; prosaic 
details of life. I was entranced by her beauty and 
sweetness ; but felt, even before God called her 
away, that I had made a mistake — that she could 
never stand by my side in difficulty and trial, and, if 
sorrow came to me, I dare not burden her tender 
spirit by asking her to share it. Still I loved her — ■ 
she was so fair and frail, and I felt so strong to 
shield and support. But, Winifred, I have long 
known and observed you closely, and admire you as 
I never have admired another. I may have lost you 
through the mistake Avhich God saw fit to correct so 
sorely, but I feel rather as if you were my Theodora 


l68 Marvelotis in Our Eyes." 

— God-given. Come to me, my dearest, and be my 
own — my wife.” 

And with happy tears Winifred gave herself away. 

Later in the evening Mr. Archer said — 

“ Did you know, Winifred, that Ethel foresaw our 
union and spoke of it to me?” 

The meaning of her departed friend’s words, “If 
ever you find you can take my place, do,” flashed 
upon the young girl’s mind. She was at last fulfill- 
ing the dying charge. 

This union of heart and soul, of affection and 
judgment, was arranged without further misgivings, 
and without a thought of poor Mrs. Lome and the 
necessities of the family Winifred would be com- 
pelled to leave. Winifred’s mother, however, was 
glad — quietly and unselfishly glad. She knew she 
could not expect to keep her daughter always; 
neither did she wish it. What mother does? 

Subsequently Mrs. Lome’s interests came under 
consideration ; and before Winifred knew it and 
could prevent, Mr. Archer had settled a small 
annuity upon her mother. Miss Archer also decided 
on residing with the latter, making a liberal arrange- 
ment, as she wisely decided her sisters-in-law would 
be better and happier left to themselves than sub- 
ject to her interference in any way. Of course she 
would pay frequent visits to the young housekeepers, 
but that was a different matter. 

Miss Freeman, having tasted the blessings of inde- 
pendence, was not willing to remain inactive in her 
sister’s house. She found a new sphere of useful- 
ness in a Christian family, where, the mother being 


Correcting a Mistake. 169 

a confirmed invalid, the whole management of the 
household was placed in her hands. 

Some people' ventured to whisper that Frank 
Ruthin sailed the high seas under a black flag, and 
was hanged for piracy. However the impression 
got abroad, it was generally Relieved he had “ come 
to a bad end ”. Over his fate there hung a mystery^ 
and of his eternal state God alone knoweth. 

The joy of Minnie and Will Joyce in welcoming 
back, as the wife of the good clergyman, the deaf 
young lady who had so long dwelt near them may 
be imagined. Much happy converse they had 
together ; and the fisherman’s cabin became not 
only a bright but a blessed place, for the peace of 
God reigned in each heart there. 

And so some sleep, some wait and watch and 
weep, mayhap, some work and pray by land and by 
sea, until the day dawn. 

“ He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves 
thereof are still.” 

“ This is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in 
our eyes.” 


THE END. 








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